


Connecting Red Threads

by Cometra



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Dark Fantasy, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Letters, Masturbation, Nightmares, Rite of Tranquility, Romantic Fluff, Sexual Content, Spoilers, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-11-09
Packaged: 2018-03-10 09:52:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 146,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3285953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cometra/pseuds/Cometra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>An invisible red thread connects those destined to meet, regardless of time, place, or circumstances. The thread may stretch or tangle, but never break. - Chinese Proverb</em>
</p><p>Gaerwyn is a former mage of the Ostwick Circle. By the First Enchanter's Orders, she and two other mages are sent to represent their circle at the Conclave. When disaster strikes, Gaerwyn is found to be the only survivor. What was more surprising? The fact that she can close the rifts threatening Thedas, or the fact that she is a former Tranquil?</p><p>Upon meeting Commander Cullen Rutherford, the two find something of a kindred soul in the other. Their blossoming friendship is a result of this commonality, and forms the connecting threads that will entangle their lives.</p><p>While their relationship appears promising, Gaerwyn struggles to overcome the biases placed upon the Tranquil. Although the only semblance she bears to a Tranquil is the Sunburst brand on her forehead, she still endures much of the same discomfort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Journey and the Arrival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!

Chapter 1:

The Circle had fallen. The mages of Ostwick were free of their shackled existences and could proceed to live out a life defined by their own hands. At least… that was the ideal urging many to rebel. In reality, the fragile ecclesiastical system that held sway had been viciously sundered by the acts of a few inciting the many. One could argue that the Chantry had rested upon the precipice of revolution, and the Kirkwall incident had acted as the lynchpin. When that gave way, the rest fell with it.

Some of the mages had formed small renegade groups, whereas the more solitaire took to seeking out isolation. Tranquil were being reported as missing at a drastic –and unsettling- rate. Stirrings of murder and conspiracy were prompt to follow.

The Conclave had been called as the mage rebellion grew in supporters, their cause sublimating in chaos and spreading to the farthest outreaches of Thedas. Instability should be recognized as a revolutionary force that may make or break an army. What the mages lacked in formation proved to be a boon upon fleeing, and a rather problematic element in the Templar’s pursuit. Of course, what the mages lacked in organization often doomed many a small and inexperienced cluster of Circle children.

From this distance, Ostwick was like a small whitewashed cameo girded by grassy hills on one side, and laced with the spurious silver coils of ocean upon the other. The sea was churning with dull grey and green hues. A storm would settle upon the coast in a matter of hours. The high grasses stroked the backs of the mage’s hands, and the early sea mists stifled the glaring sunlight. How many years had trickled away? From her outlook, she could see the imposing figure of Ostwick’s tower from afar. Like the point on a pearly sundial.

“Gaerwyn,” the mage’s companion called out. “Come now. We mustn’t dally.”

The young woman turned, nodding her head in recognition. The soul who had shouted to her smiled wanly, his features appearing all the more pallid in the grey morn’s light.

“If we were to acquire passage on a boat-“ she began.

“No, no, no. Lethallan, please,” Gaerwyn’s second companion pleaded, “The sea promises only to swallow us up.”

“You forget how superstitious Samahl is,” the man chided gently, though some undertones of irritability were vaguely perceivable. His features were obscured by a beaten, ragged hood. Only his bare and scantily muscled arms were uncovered.

“Forgive me, dear,” the lass began, the amends being made with ease. “I fear I was rather selfish in my request.”

“We can speak when we make camp tonight,” the man stated, gesturing sharply towards the shallowly trodden path. “There is little time to spare if we are to outstrip pursuers.”

“Tristan… you worry far too much.”

“Try running for ten years, and then tell me that my concern is unfounded.” He snorted.

Gaerwyn withdrew her staff from the sling on her back and proceeded to gradually descend from her hilly outlook. The young Dalish and incorrigible human mage awaited her at its base. The noble mage drew up the hood of her cloak and secured the scarf coiled limply around her neck. A warm bouquet of perfume unfurled from the its fabric, enveloping the lass in a warm nostalgia of days spent in the Circle gardens.

The small group traversed the countryside, always staying a mile from the coast and relying upon the gentle whispering of waves on sand to guide them steadily when the ocean was obscured by outcroppings of rock, or -when absolutely necessary- the mages were pressed to depart from the road when the echoes of hooves on cobbled stone warned them of approaching riders.

“I don’t understand why we must hide,” Samahl intoned quietly. “I mean, if they were Templars, wouldn’t they also be making for the Conclave? If they were nobles, wouldn’t they pass us by?”

“Nobles and peasants alike would be quick to turn us over to the Templars… and the Templars could very well kill us on sight. Nobles to gain sway, peasants to gain favor and money,” Tristan responded from his place at the front of the ragtag procession. “We’re just apostates on the run now.”

“But I don’t understand. The First Enchanter-“

“Take it from me, little one, the Templars are more likely to cut us down first and then search our belongings. Then, they might just find the letter permitting us passage.”

“You Shem… why must you complicate everything?”

“Gaerwyn, would you care to respond to that?” Tristan inquired.

“No. I would not.”

They continued in silence, following the same approach to their travels for the remainder of the day. When darkness began to mingle with the sickly pallor of the day, and the rain beat down on their backs in a storm of needling pain, the mages claimed sanctuary in a cave close at hand. A campfire was a necessary evil that would draw attention to their location. Yet, after the long day of traveling, the mages were hard-pressed to argue amongst each other. The rains of the Free Marches were known to be chilly and unpleasant, which would only contribute to the frigid air settling in the cave. With a conversation no longer than ten words, the demand for a fire was made known.

Samahl gathered up what dry branches she could find, and settled the broken limbs in a tower-like formation. She encircled her creation with stones, dipping her hand within the perimeter of the haphazard circle to withdraw excess sand. The Dalish lass paused to admire her handiwork before promptly setting it ablaze.

“I’ll take first watch,” Gaerwyn stated, making for the cave’s mouth.

“Why?” Samahl inquired after her retreating figure.

“You’ll have killed most of the spiders by the time for me to get some shut-eye,” came her echoing reply.

“She’s joking, right?” Samahl looked to Tristan in a mixture of puzzlement and terror. The human grinned at her, but did not respond.

Night settled like dark wine in cloudy water. The storm picked up and howled on like a ghost burdened with eternal agony. Outside, the gale whipped the trees and foliage into contorted forms that could almost pass as weather-beaten travelers. A burst of lightning illuminated the sky and burned the mage's eyes. She was momentarily dazed by the spectacle. Gaerwyn’s vigil was cut short when a calloused hand clapped down on her shoulder.

“I’ll take the next watch,” Tristan informed her. “You may go rest, milady.” He bowed in a show of exaggeration that was coupled with the intent to irritate his colleague.

Gaerwyn rose up and placed her palms squarely on the man’s chest. She shoved him back with a sharp grunt of irritation. “My title means nothing in the Circle, Tristan, and I have never held it over your head. Why do you search for ire with me?”

Tristan jutted his chin forth and set his jaw. His grey eyes were pinpricks of light under his hood. “You are so… unsettling to be around. You shouldn’t feel anything. Not for our plight, or anyone for that matter.”

“Our SHARED plight, Tristan. I share in this burden. I will help in any way that I can.”

Tristan’s lips contorted into a snarl. “You… get out of my sight.”

“Don’t forget who saved you from that Templar’s blade,” she growled. “Your feelings over how I should or should not act mean little when we face a threat like this. The well-being of mage, templar, and bystander alike are at stake in this.”

He shook his head in disappointment. Brushing past Gaerwyn, the man settled onto the ground without another word.

\--

Two weeks later, the three mages arrived at the base of the Frostback Mountains. Monstrous in size, and resembling the spine of a slumbering frost dragon, the range spilled out before them. The path to the Temple of Sacred Ashes had been marked by multiple camps of varying size and alliance, and vast processions of templars and mages marching onward into the winding pass. A few stragglers followed after, some Chasind folk, apostates, mercenaries, and so on. Quite the gathering, Gaerwyn mused.

“By the Maker,” Tristan hissed. He limped on at a significantly hobbled pace, with one of his ankles splinted by an inexperienced hand.

“We can rest for a bit,” Samahl said, pushing the mage onto an unearthed log. “You act as if time is of the essence.”

“Are you worried we won’t acquire the best seats?” Gaerwyn jested gently. She scanned the procession for a medic, or an individual with the vaguest idea of where one may be sought out. She spotted the form of a man in knight’s regalia, sporting a wine-red overcoat accented with a mane of scarlet and black fur. He was conversing with a woman who possessed an angular face, and a third person, a Templar of some standing, with a tattoo running down the bridge of his nose. The woman’s armor was hard to identify. The only indication that she held any affiliation with the Chantry was the eye set in flames emblazoned on her breastplate.

“I’ll be back shortly,” Gaerwyn informed her companions.

“Wait a minute, don’t even-“ Tristan called after her.

As Gaerwyn approached, the woman departed to complete her duties while the Templar rejoined the ranks. “Excuse me, ser,” she spoke, modulating her voice to be heard over the throngs of pilgrims.

The man turned to her. His features were pleasing enough, Gaerwyn mused in passing. His hair was well-kempt, and the curve of his lips were enunciated by the stroke of a scar. Upon noting the mage’s presence, his eyes widened with genuine intrigue. Gaerwyn paid little heed.

“My companions and I are searching for a medic, would you know of one's whereabouts?” she asked. She then shifted her staff to rest against her shoulder- a nonthreatening way to display her weapon of choice, according to an old Templar acquaintance.

“I… ah…”

“Please stop staring at my forehead.” Gaerwyn permitted a flush of irritation to color her voice. Remind them that you are a part of this plight as well, she internally pressed herself, that you too, wish to see this threat end. Remind them that you can feel just as passionately as they.

“I… forgive me. I just…”

“I realize that. Now, would there be a medic available?”

“There is a group of mages from the Ferelden Circle. I believe a few should have knowledge of the healing arts. They should be… ah… there.” He pointed to a small gathering of mages close by.

“You have my thanks.” She inclined her head to express her gratitude.

“Are you still able to use magic?” he asked after her.

She turned and held her staff aloft. “I assure you that this is not an ornamented walking stick.”

Upon returning to her companions, Gaerwyn was met with enraged chastisement on Tristan’s part. “You asked a blooming Templar for directions?”

“He was rather polite,” the woman returned, “Easily flustered, but still, quite polite.”

“You’re an idiot! They’re the enemy!”

“I’m an idiot?” she echoed. “Oh? Was I the one who fell asleep on watch and wound up being carried off by bandits? Shall I remind you how that tacked on an extra two days of travelling? Picking our way through that blasted swamp just so we could retrieve you, and you end up injured in the process. Let me not forget to mention how YOU chose to deal with those bandits. Shall we discuss that as well?”

Tristan grit his teeth into a savage sneer and fell quiet. He could argue, but there would be little point. Gaerwyn grasped the foul tempered conjurer by the arm and wrenched him to his feet. With Samahl’s assistance, Gaerwyn approached the Ferelden Circle mages. They were more than willing to assist their brethren, they had stated. In fact, they were just as insistent to provide aid as Tristan was to start the trek up to the Temple.

“We could camp here for the night,” Samahl murmured. “I like these Fereldan folk. The mages offered us a place by their fireside. I wouldn’t want to refuse such a kindness… what do you think, Lethallan?”

Gaerwyn shrugged. “I would feel safer camping with our own." She then turned to look upon Tristan. "It would be inadvisable to strain your ankle for the time being as well. Healing magic has affects that are instant, but the true repairs take place during hours after. Takes a while to seep in, I should say. Like water into a sponge.”

“It appears I am outvoted,” Tristan grumbled, “Very well. We make the trek to the Temple an hour before dawn.”

“Here I thought you were incapable of seeing reason,” Gaerwyn mocked lightly. “You are full of so many pleasant surprises.”

The night crept out of its den like a beast stalking its prey. People were attracted to firelight like moths to flame. They crept into the halos of gold, seeking shelter from the darkness –an enemy that was eagerly pressing in. Tristan had grudgingly allowed himself to be accepted into the fold of Ferelden enchanters. He now sat amongst them, sharing in a drink.

Gaerwyn observed from the fringes of the camp, where the dusky touch of firelight fell short. She leaned against her staff and pulled her scarf firmly about her neck. The crest of House Trevelyan was faintly outlined in the dusky torchlight, where it encircled her middle finger in a band of gold.

“Lethallan,” Samahl called out to her. She approached the mage. The vallaslin, shaped to resemble tree branches, scrunched around the elf’s eyes when she smiled. “Why do you stay so far away? You are practically inviting the Dread Wolf to snatch you up!”

They shared in a laugh. “I fear that my presence would throw off their merriment,” Gaerwyn said. “I suppose they are uncomfortable around one such as myself. I shouldn't be surprised."

“But you aren’t…”

“I know, my dear,” the human responded, her smile wavering. “Yet the mark remains.”

Samahl threw her arms around her companion; the elf’s wiry frame was surprisingly powerful. “You do not deserve this,” she whispered. “Tristan is such a… len'alas lath'din.” She spat the words as if cursing him.

“Perhaps. Do not waste your anger on him. You are better than that. A proud Dalish warrior.”

Samahl shook her head, her raven black hair falling loose about her shoulders. “My kinsmen did not wish for me to remain with them. They feared that too many with gifts like mine would threaten the clan’s safety. They made me leave… How can I claim pride when knowing this? Knowing that they saw me as a danger before they viewed me as one of the People? It hurts to recall how tenderly they would called me da’len.”

With a motherly gesture, Gaerwyn placed her hand under Samahl’s chin and tilted her features upwards. “I am blessed by your friendship, Lethallan, as your kinsmen were blessed to have you. They were fools to make you leave. Now, return to the fireside. You will catch your death out here.”

“Join us?” Samahl inquired, turning in time to see Tristan pouring the contents of a wine skin into his gaping mouth. He had retrieved his deck of cards and was forming a game of Wicked Grace. No one could argue that he was an unhappy drunk. Chances were that the only times he was even marginally happy were those he spent heavily inebriated.

“In a little,” Gaerwyn assured her friend.

Samahl sighed in irritability. “I take it that you will skulk around the outskirts of camp for the next three hours? How lovely.” She then unclasped a silver chain from around her neck and let it fall into her hand. The chain emitted a melody like droplets of water falling onto stone. “This is for luck tomorrow,” she informed Gaerwyn, holding out the amulet. A tree bursting forth with white blooms was carved into the ironbark surface. Of the three pendants that Samahl wore simultaneously, this one was the most intricate in craft and the one with the most sentimental value. Why else would the elf clutch onto it when she was frightened or angered?

“This is… I cannot take this,” Gaerwyn breathed.

“I’m lending it to you,” the elf responded, her resolve quite stout. “I will not have you stand before the Conclave without my aid. Even if that aid comes in the form of a silly good luck charm.” She folded Gaerwyn's fingers over the amulet, giving her hand a firm squeeze.

The Dalish mage stepped back into the warm ring of orange, her bare toes welcoming the new found warmth. Gaerwyn watched with a fondness she had felt for few individuals. Wordlessly, she looped the chain over her head and gently tugged at it- to ensure it settled comfortably against her neck. The ironbark pendant was still warm from where it had rested against Samahl’s chest. On that pendant, Gaerwyn swore to protect her dear friend. She swore to discover a way for the Dalish. A way that would ensure they never see the necessity in sending their children away again. To eliminate the fear of prying human interests and to remove the threat of attracting the Chantry's wrath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Definitions taken from the Dragon Age Wiki page on the Elven Language: http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Elven_language
> 
> Lethallan-Casual reference used for someone with whom one is familiar. Lethallin is used for males, while lethallan is used for females, but this is not always the case. Akin to "cousin" or "clansman" since "lin" is the word for blood.
> 
> Vallaslin- blood writing. The tattoos that the Dalish elves will use as way of honoring the elven gods.
> 
> len'alas lath'din- dirty child no one loves
> 
> Shem- (I'm defining this word by memory) A word derived from Shemlen, which means "quick children," which refers to the humans. This is referring to how the elves were initially immortal, but were robbed of this by contact with humans. According to the Dalish elf origin, upon meeting humans, the elvish blood began to quicken and they lost their immortality. The word Shem is a racial slur that many elves will use when referring to humans.


	2. The Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaerwyn witnesses the aftermath of the Conclave firsthand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have a little time before my Geology lab begins, and I decided to post my chapter a day early. I'm hoping to have a routine of posting either on Mondays or Tuesdays. Tuesday updates seem more likely, since my Mondays are usually hellish. I am also contemplating putting up two chapters this week, as I would like to have the exposition of my fanfiction established in a timely fashion.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

She remembered racing down a path lined by jagged rocks, their sharp points bearing up a sky of bilious green. Her breath was ragged and searing in her throat. The creatures pursuing her had features that lacked in consistency. One moment, they were spiders scuttling after her at a breakneck rate and in the next they were Templars raging down upon her. They would shift into images of lesser demons before repeating the cycle.

“Run!” a voice called to her. “Quickly!”

A golden silhouette stood atop a steep incline, one tendril of light outstretched to the mage. Gaerwyn recalled little beyond reaching for a slender hand manifesting itself from the warm glow. It was strong, and it folded around her wrist with the same gentility one may expect from a lover. Then, that same hand wrenched her up and hurled her into the ragged gash opening into the physical world- a material world where dreams were supposed to remain merely fantasies of a resting mind.

\--

Gaerwyn awoke with a start. Her wrists were locked in rusty shackles that crippled her ability to cast spells, and she found herself resting prostrate on the ground. Only the vaguest shadow of a memory could be mustered, and even then, the mage found herself grasping at emptiness to recall what had occurred. A sudden sputter of green light crackled to life on her left hand, outlining the shape of a sizable laceration. She cried out in audible horror, bolting up into a kneeling position to further herself from the source of magic.

Looking to her surroundings, she was greeted by the bitter interiors of a prison. Circling her were four soldiers, each with a blade raised steady, waiting to strike Gaerwyn down at even the insinuation of hostility.

“Where is this?” she inquired, turning her gaze to the man stationed to her immediate left. No response. Save for the quivering in his legs, Gaerwyn was incapable of gleaning any information of use. At least she had an inkling as to why she was imprisoned now.

They feared her.

The mage unfolded her fist, finding the pale flesh of her palm had been marred by scathing burns, blistered and scabbed by a heat she could recall no source for. The light from the wound became animated- as if responding to her panic. As a yelp of horror leapt from her lips, the prison door flew open. The warrior woman Gaerwyn recognized from the events prior to the Conclave stepped inside. A hooded figure trailing closely behind, her movements trained by a tempered, deadly patience, like a dancer swaying to and fro. Evidently both were women of some authority, as the soldiers promptly stepped aside and sheathed their weapons. There was almost a sense of relief in seeing someone familiar, even an individual from a passing encounter. At least… it was for a fleeting moment.

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now,” the warrior snarled, bracing her hand on the hilt of her blade. She stared down at Gaerwyn, circling her with a menacing gait set to her step. “The Conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead… except for you.” The accusation was there. It was Gaerwyn’s fault.

“Everyone?” Gaerwyn found the word heavy in her mouth. “Are you certain? I was traveling with a Dalish mage and-“

“Fellow conspirators?” the woman snarled, making a wide gesture. She grappled onto the hair obscuring Gaerwyn's forehead, wrenching the red locks back to reveal the sunburst brand seared into the mage's brow. “What use would they find in a Tranquil? You… did you create an enchantment that-“

“I am not a Tranquil,” Gaerwyn interjected firmly. “That is to say I was but-“

“Explain this,” she grasped the mage by the wrist, raising the hand slashed open by pale green light. She shoved it aside in a show of disgust directed at her prisoner.

“I can’t,” Gaerwyn began.

She fought back with venom, the woman. When Gaerwyn could only contribute her confusion as an answer, the warrior rushed as if to strike. The hooded figure intervened, insisting that they needed their prisoner alive. What a kindness, Gaerwyn thought bitterly. Yet, from their brief conversation, the mage discovered their names. Cassandra and Leliana. Useless information.

“Go to the forward camp, Leliana,” Cassandra ordered. “I will take her to the rift.”

“Samahl and Tristan… no,” Gaerwyn whispered. She fought back the unbidden tears, finding some managed to escape still.

Cassandra eased the mage to her feet, taken slightly aback by the prisoner’s unsteady balance. Gaerwyn choked on the sob wracking through her body.

“Is there any way they could have fled?” Gaewyn whispered, her voice heaving.

“I would not rob you of the hope,” Cassandra replied, her words uncharacteristically tender. Yet even so, something about the mage displaying raw emotion seemed to startle her a great deal. “Come outside. It would be easier to show you…”

Gaerwyn followed after the warrior in utter despair. As the brittle air of a winter morning caressed the mage’s exposed face and the stone tile of the floor retreated to in the wake of a blanket of snow, she turned her gaze upwards. She inhaled, finding the light air chilling and enough to ground her in the reality of her situation. Hovering over a mountain peak in the near distance was a ring of ghastly green light. Around it curled plumes of cloud that created a whirling spiral in the sky. From the center, sounds akin to thunder were emitted at a troubling frequency. With each rumble, Gaerwyn could swear the ground beneath her feet trembled

Cassandra explained that the hole –the Breach, as it had been termed- was a portal into the Fade. Demons were taking advantage of this and several other rifts to enter the physical world at an accelerated rate. When Gaerwyn pressed for more information, she was met with the request for aid. She bit her tongue to avoid making a snide remark. If she was to help them, then why couldn't she be informed of what they were facing?

To say that she had not considered breaking from Cassandra’s custody then and taking off into the chaos of the camp would have been a fallacious lie. The urge had latched onto her ankles and was insistently tugging her towards the stretch of white lying just beyond the war camp. The gash of light playing over her palm’s flesh flared to life once more. The sensation was comparable to placing one’s hand into a cooking fire and keeping it there for the pain the action produced. Gaerwyn was driven to her knees. It was all she could do not to howl in anguish.

“As the Breach grows, so does your mark,” Cassandra said. “It is spreading… and it will kill you.”

Oh, so my life truly is on the line, Gaerwyn cursed internally. Of course. The mage looked up to this woman of the Chantry. “Very well, Cassandra. I will help.”

Once more, the mage had shocked the woman. It was strangely satisfying, if not the foreshadowing to a potentially antagonistic relationship. Maker, Gaerwyn cursed internally, I’m speaking as if she and I will actually have any contact after this issue is resolved. If I am lucky, she’ll free me. If not… I’ll probably be drafted along with this lot. The thought left a bitter taste in her mouth.

Cassandra eased Gaerwyn back to her feet. The mage thanked her quietly, and repeated the obligatory words of gratitude when her shackles were removed. Red welts formed bracelets around her wrists, chafed from where the harsh metal had bitten into flesh.

The brisk pace that Cassandra set for this journey was enough to force Gaerwyn to keep her focus on what was to come. She had only a fleeting moment to pray for the survival of her fellow Ostwick mages. One which she spent by withdrawing the ironbark amulet from where it rested against her chest, and kissing its surface for luck. She deposited it once more under rough fabric of her tunic. She prayed that if the Maker or Andraste ignored her entreaty, then the Elvhen gods would provide a sympathetic ear for her plight. Would it come as surprise to anyone if a mage's pleas were ignored? Especially by a creator who had turned his back on his children?

\--

Gaerwyn had expected ruins. She expected a weak spot in the Veil and mounting casualties. She had assumed there would be a formidable mass of demons lying in wait, and was pleasantly gifted with a few stragglers. Red lyrium came as an unwanted surprise, but it hardly threw her.

And yet… she had not expected corpses.

Many were on their knees with their heads turned upwards as if in prayer. Their flesh was reddened and seared, stripping them of identity and self. This blast had rendered all these hopeful souls as nothing more than an aesthetic to impress the dire horror of the situation. Gaerwyn wove through the clusters of the dead, seeking a sign, anything, that would indicate if Samahl and Tristan numbered amongst the dead. A niggling voice at the back of her head begged that she give up the search before it was too late. She would rather turn up empty-handed and live with the empty hope that her colleagues had managed to flee.

It was not to be so.

In a remnant of an alcove was a corpse that remained steadfastly standing, a staff rooted before him as if in the midst of preparing a barrier. The staff was crafted from Dragonbone- a material that rarely melted even when in contact with the most sweltering heats. Thus why many mages who were had an affinity for fire magic would commission one be made… or go to pains to create one by their own instruction. Gaerwyn had seen this weapon many times before. In fact, she had need only see it to remember it slung over surly Tristan’s back. During the past two weeks of travel, when a bout of boredom gripped her, she would stare at the staff and memorize the small nuances and intricacies woven into the design. By a loving hand… one that had endeavored to protect mages at all costs.

Needless to say, the rush of relief she thought would enjoin this moment never arrived. Curled into a ball against the backs of Tristan’s knees was another corpse. This one had its arms firmly wrapped around its head. The figure was small, wiry even. Gaerwyn rushed to its side and knelt. She could make out very little of the corpse’s former visage. A few patches of black hair had miraculously remained attached to its head, and the remnants of two necklaces dangled limply from its neck.

Gingerly, Gaerwyn lifted one up to see charred wooden beads that had once depicted several different animals. Hawks, bears, wolves, rabbits, and so on. “It was a gift from my mother,” Gaerwyn recalled the conversation with Samahl clearly. “When I came of age and received my Vallaslin, she handed this off to me. She hand-carved each bead herself. Wanted to prove just how proud of me she was.”

The beads crumbled to ash after coming into contact with Gaerwyn’s hand, and the second pendant loosened. The silver chain links had melted together, and now threatened to fall apart like the former accessory. Once, it was a pendant of silverite that had the lyrics of an old elvhen song carved into the surface; now, it was melted and warped by the tragedy that had taken place. “It was a gift from my clan’s Keeper,” Samahl had explained. “It is both a prayer and a song; one which we sing to celebrate the birth of a new child, or to welcome other clans. She… said to keep it close to my heart. She said that when it was safe for me to return to live amongst the Dalish once more, that we would sing this until our throats ached.”

Gaerwyn’s fingers folded around the pendant, the weakened chain snapping. She brought the item close to her chest, and wept. This was all that was left of her dear friend. Her lethallan. How could this have happened? She heard footsteps approach, muffled by the thick layer of ash cloaking the ground. It did not deter her tears from running. She was past the point of embarrassment. All Gaerwyn longed for now was the right to mourn in solitude.

“Are these your companions?” Cassandra asked, somewhat wistfully.

All the mage could manage in response was a mute nod of her head. A pale hand was placed on her quaking shoulder, strong but comforting. Gaerwyn turned her reddened eyes up to see Solas standing above her. They had only met a few hours prior, and had found a mutual fascination in studying the fade. Now he was seeing her in a state of abject vulnerability.

“I am sorry for your loss,” he said, his features softening. “I fear I do not have the words to comfort you.”

Gaerwyn looked back on Samahl. “I will inform your clan of your passing, Lethallan. I hope… I can return to give you a proper burial.” She rose unsteadily to her feet, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her tunic.

“Shit… are you alright?” Varric asked.

“No, I’m not. Even so… we still have the current task at hand to consider,” she replied brusquely. “Shall we?”

With that, Gaerwyn removed her newly found staff from its sling. It was of poor quality and had been bound together by strips of leather to keep it from falling apart. Nothing like the superior quality of her old –and likely destroyed- mage staff. Yet… there was some deeply rooted fear that by taking Tristan’s staff, she would be committing high sacrilege against him. She was certain it would combust merely by her touching it.

“The Breach is this way,” Cassandra told her.

“Understood. Let’s go.”

She could not describe the smoldering rage boiling in her chest. Never had she felt such enmity for anyone –especially a force which remained undefined. The sunburst symbol branded on her forehead sharply creased as her eyebrows drew together in a scowl. What mattered now was seeing that the was Breach sealed, she thought. Gaerwyn's grip tightened around her staff to the point where her knuckles threatened to break through the flesh of her hand. Whoever was the cause of this tragedy, and the death of her beloved friend, would pay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short note: the Tranquil are cut off from the Fade, but because of this they have somehow acquired the ability to enchant items through that disconnect. Therefore, when Cassandra asked Gaerwyn if she enchanted whatever caused the explosion at the Conclave, she is referring to the Tranquils' ability to do so.


	3. The Tranquil Herald

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaerwyn is given the title "Herald of Andraste." Will she accept the burden that the name carries?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I would say that I've wrapped up the exposition now. As promised, here it is.
> 
> Thank you for reading!

The Breach remained untouched, and, still, threatened to loose more demons onto the waking world. Gaerwyn had managed to seal a rift immediately beneath the Breach but had not succeeded in doing away with the true threat. To add insult to injury, she had passed out after using the Mark. Mages were already deemed fragile of constitution, and her weakened state only seemed to validate the claim. There was also the matter of a burst of Fade energy that swept the remainder of the Inquisition forces off their feet. According to Solas, a ring of stinging green light had rippled over the Frostbacks, leaving only the echoes of a rock slide in its wake.

Not to mention she was now the object of much fascination in the camp. Not only was she a mage, but one that had somehow reversed the Rite of Tranquility! Clearly the Andraste –no- clearly, the Maker had deemed Gaerwyn worthy enough reestablish her connection with the Fade and permit this fallen mage to once more draw upon magic. They had started calling her the Herald of Andraste! Gaerwyn did not know whether to be amused or downright infuriated by being forced into the role of a figurehead.

“This isn’t what I want, Cassandra!” She had spoken pleadingly with the Seeker. “I’m no Herald. I can’t-“

Cassandra placed a hand on Gaerwyn’s shoulder. “I believe you are. You hold the key to our salvation… would you see it wasted?” In her stare was a mixture of conviction, faith, and strength that Gaerwyn had never witnessed before. The mage conceded, and agreed to remain.

“They won’t accept me. I was Tranquil, and they will assume that I still am. To them I’m no better than a talking penknife.” Her mouth twisted sourly around the statement. Brother Genitivi seemed to believe that his comparisons were educational as well as desired. Perhaps rude and ill-informed was more accurate.

“They will accept you.” Cassandra spoke firmly. “You have my word.”

\--

“These burns are quite nasty, aren’t they?” Adan mused over Gaerwyn’s hands. He was supposed to be an alchemist, not some medic, as he had explained. Though, he was rather adept at caring for his charges. “Not to worry. Some salve and time to heal will have this set right in no time.” The alchemist proceeded to wrap the burns in thick swathes of cotton, his touch laden with prodding technicality. He certainly did not possess the gentility sought out in healers and apothecaries alike.

Adan’s gaze drifted to the sunburst brand on her forehead. “Do I disgust you?” Gaerwyn asked heavily, expecting the usual answer. A sudden break in eye contact, a blustered apology, and then she would only see him in passing from that point on.

“Ha!” Adan scoffed. “I’m made of tougher stuff than that. If anything, you’re proof that the hopeless still have a reason to hope. Did ya need that little assurance to help you sleep at night?”

She had laughed bitterly at that.

\--

“Run when you get the first chance. I’ve written enough tragedies to know where this is going,” Varric had said to the mage over a tankard of ale.

She thought about it. She walked to the fringes of the camp and stared out at the vast expanse of white. They were by no means holding her prisoner, at least, not anymore. Leliana had called Gaerwyn’s bluff with ease, and made it clear that leaving would expose her to the mercies –or lack thereof- of the world. Whereas the Inquisition forces would at least be able to protect her in return for her services as an agent. There was also the thinly veiled insinuation that, in the case of her being endangered, the Inquisition couldn't help. She would be on her own. At least in the service to this cause, some political asylum was promised.

Gaerwyn settled into the snowy down and considered her options. Tranquils were going missing at a startling rate... and she could easily be mistaken as one still. So many people had accused her of simply mimicking people who could experience emotion. Some thought she walked about in a dreamlike stupor, which meant those few may be willing to try and take advantage of her.

She had heard of how certain individuals would take Tranquils captive, forcing the serene souls to enchant items which were then sold in seedy store fronts. There were other, more foul, scenarios that lie in wait for a Tranquil outside of the Circle’s protection. Most resulting in a grisly end. Being an agent of a rising power did not seem to be such a bad option when confronted with the alternative.

\--

They met for a third time at that point. Cullen spotted the mage sitting in the snow. She stared out at the frozen lake, watching the water shifting beneath the icy surface. He approached her cautiously. There was little doubt in his mind that, while she was civil, the Herald may not be all too fond of him. She had mentioned, in vague detail, some of what had occurred at Ostwick. The Templars who had watched over the mages had turned cruel. Many turned on their wards, leaving a select few to protect and aid the mages in their escape.

“Aren’t you cold?” he asked, surprised conversation could come so easily.

“I’m freezing,” was the reply.

“Then what in Andraste’s name are you doing sitting there?”

“Contemplating if simply leaving is an option,” she mused. Gaerwyn leaned forward and began to shape a figure from the snow.

“Why would you…”

“That was a joke… mostly. I fear I will be of little assistance to the Inquisition, what with my former state of being.”

“You mean when you were Tranquil?”

She tapped her index finger to her forehead. “As you so aptly noted during our first meeting, the brand is rather easy to notice. People are also quick to assume the worse in another. Mages and those not possessing magical abilities are both prone to dislike Tranquil. We are a reminder of what they could become, or a display of abuse to those outside of a Circle.”

“How did you… well, return to normal?”

“Start using magic again? Start feeling something beyond a dreamlike serenity?” She glanced up at him with piercing greenish-gold eyes. Eyes with a coloration near identical to the Breach. “I don’t recall. If I were to say, it simply happened, I do not know if you would believe me. It is a small gap in my memory. I remember sitting in the study of a senior enchanter in White Spire, and then, I recall breaking down his door with a sudden surge of magic.” She paused and quickly carried on by saying, “It took a time for me to reign in my gift. Yet… it was as if I felt this sudden surge of emotions all at once: the lightness of joy, burning sadness, and impassioned anger. I don’t know why I found the synthesis so beautiful, but I did.” Her fingers formed rabbit ears on the small snow creature. Cullen caught the glint of the ring signifying her place in the Circle on her left hand, and another indicating her family heraldry on her right. That was after taking note of how her hands were thickly swathed in cotton bandages, the edges slowly fraying with wear. From what little of her damaged hands peeked out from beneath the wrappings, Cullen could discern that the flesh was peeling and pocked with blisters.

“I’m certain you did not break from drilling your troops simply to listen to me prattle on about my miraculous recovery.” Gaerwyn smirked. “My apologies.” She rose to her feet, brushing off the snow clinging to her trousers.

“N-no, please, don’t apologize.” The Commander was easily flustered, Gaerwyn observed. “From what Solas has told me, you have quite the affinity for magic,” he continued.

“I love it,” she said, her gaze distancing with thought. “It’s rather hard to explain, and I truly couldn’t do so without coming off as a starry-eyed apprentice.” She crossed her arms and looked away in abashment.

The Commander chuckled softly. “You certainly have a way with sarcasm.”

“Oh, so many Tranquils do. We get away with it too,” she grinned.

“Really?” They fell into step together, walking back towards the training grounds.

“There was this one uppity senior enchanter who was under the impression that because Tranquils are prone to acting a bit dreamy, we were also stupid. He would speak to us as one does a child, and when we enchanted equipment he would stand nearby and comment on our slow work pace,” she laughed at the memory. “Mind you, sarcasm usually has some underhanded meaning. Passive aggressive intent should not come naturally to us. It doesn’t. Since Tranquils can be marginally creative, snide observations do. Tranquils aren’t supposed to be anything more than, well, surface deep. Now, this same enchanter was also interested in this other mage, a rather nice lass. She visited him while he was overseeing our work one day and, well, we embarrassed him.”

“What did you do?”

“Why, Senior Enchanter, we recall another mage visiting you just last week. Why, she was wearing a rather great deal of perfume and was staring at you just like this one is now! Didn’t she squeeze your wrist? You are fortunate to have such close friends. She lifted her skirt as well, if we recall." Gaerwyn paused only briefly to shrug. "Of course she only lifted her skirt to scratch her ankle, but people get so caught up in nuance that they forget WHO they are talking to.”

Cullen bit his lip to refrain from laughing. “In short,” Gaerwyn continued, “We got back at him for being an arse, but he was still under the impression that the incident was similar to children regurgitating naïve observations. I suppose in a way it was childish revenge.”

“Did you undergo your Harrowing?”

Gaerwyn nodded. “I’m sure you’re aware that the Rite is sometimes invoked as a punishment, and not a last resort. It was... I was… not exceptional in that regard.”

“You sell yourself rather short. I mean, you are you again.” He placed a hand on the back of his neck, finding himself tongue-tied and incapable of stringing a coherent statement together.

“I was always me,” she responded, halting in the snow and looking to him. His gaze did not waver from hers, not even when her brand was so blatantly obvious. She couldn’t help but smile at this.

“Of course. Pardon me, I did not mean to offend.”

“You didn’t,” she laughed. “This was a refreshing conversation, Commander. I have not spoken to anyone of what it was like. Samahl knew some but…” her features darkened considerably. “Forgive me, I must take my leave.”

Before the Commander could utter another word, the mage had already turned her attentions to Haven’s gate. She strode across the training grounds, inclining her head occasionally to someone who recognized her, and then disappeared into the encampment.

\--

“Do you experience the Fade differently than you did before?” Solas inquired.

Gaerwyn shrugged. “At times it feels like I am reaching for something that is unobtainable. It’s this brief feeling, but it makes me sick whenever it occurs. I fear that I will relapse into what I was before.”

The two rested on the steps leading up to the alchemist’s house, speaking quietly. Gaerwyn wrapped her arms around her knees. “I love the Fade, and being cut off from it again… the thought disturbs me.”

Solas was silent. He observed the mage’s unchanging expression, perhaps seeing how the Rite of Tranquility had left some rather lasting effects. The hurt was obvious in her voice though.

“If it does happen again, I will be more than willing to assist in finding a way to revert it once more,” Solas said gently. “There are many spirits in the Fade who would happily lend me their knowledge.”

“Thank you. It is good to know that my fear may have been misplaced. Now, would you tell me more of your journeys?” She lifted a tankard of water to her lips and drank deeply. Adan had insisted that she remain hydrated, insisting that doing so would speed the healing process along. Gaerwyn wasn't all too sure if there was any backing to his claim, but she didn't dare argue the point. Not when the crotchety old alchemist was going out of his way to help her.

The elf visibly relaxed. He did not need to search his mind for an ideal story to tell. They were numerous in count, and Gaerwyn was willing to listen to all of them.

Hours passed, and the woman of the Circle had not moved from her position. She sat with her knee propped against her cheek, simply listening to Solas’s voice. It had a pleasant lilt to it, and all his tales were lovingly told. The elf had treasured every last moment of his travels, coveting each experience. It showed in how he would sometimes grow animate in his descriptions, his hands moving quickly as he described an encounter with a spirit or memory of old. His eyes would soften. A warm smile would spread over his lips... almost as if he were only then waking from a dream.

“Thank you, Solas,” she stated, after the elf had fallen silent. “I fear I have taken much of your time.”

“Not at all,” he smiled. “It is… refreshing to have someone so willing to hear of my exploits.”

Gaerwyn rose to her feet. “We shall have to speak again. I would be honored to hear more.”

“I would be happy to share.”

\--

Josephine had taken some interest in the Herald of Andraste, having called her into her office for a word late that evening. The office was a dank room that had clearly been converted from a storage space for Lady Montilyet’s use. The Ambassador had performed something next to a miracle in creating an area for herself. Even when the lighting was dreary, Gaerwyn was given the distinct feeling that she was welcomed. Sprigs of dried flowers were tucked into the corners of the room, creating a faint floral aroma that mingled with the air. A box of Antivan chocolates was placed on her desk to entice any who may choose to visit... and also act as a trap if someone tried to leave too quickly for the Lady Ambassador's liking.

“Would your family be willing to assist in the effort?” Josephine inquired.

“I can send them a letter, if you would like.” Gaerwyn cast her gaze to the side. Maker, when had she last spoken to them? She doubted that the letter would even be read. It was worth a try, even so. If she was going to be a part of this cause, she may as well give it her all.

“That would be most appreciated,” she smiled warmly. “May I ask…” she began slowly, “After your companions?”

“Samahl and Tristan?”

“Yes. Who were they?”

“Tristan was a man who had been on the run from Templars and Chantry authority for most of his life,” Gaerwyn began. “He was caught and forcefully carted off to the Ostwick Circle. He tried to burn down the library his first night there. Beyond that, I know very little. We weren’t particularly close, and he disliked me due to well…” Josephine reached out, placing a comforting hand over Gaerwyn’s. She gestured for the mage to drink the tea that she had prepared beforehand.

Lifting the cup to her lips, Gaerwyn continued. “Samahl was one of the Dalish. For some clans it is customary for them to send mages away if there are too many. Samahl told me once that her clan was rather small, and three mages was a threat they couldn't afford. She was asked to leave and join a clan camped thirty or so miles away. Unfortunately, she came too close to a human settlement and was captured. She and I met in the Ostwick Circle and managed to become fast friends.”

“You sound surprised.”

“In a sense, I suppose I was. She kept to herself a great deal. I’d find her staring out of windows in her spare time, and I took to keeping her company.” The image of Samahl's sulking figure was brought to the forefront of her mind. She would sit upon a windowsill, staring off beyond the city, to a small line of green laying on the horizon. Gaerwyn did not recall what had prompted her to sit at her side, but she certainly did not regret her decision in doing so.

“I am sorry for your loss, Lady Trevelyan,” Josephine murmured.

“There is no need. I will find who is responsible for this. I would… also like to locate Samahl’s clan. They should know of her passing.”

“Does Tristan have family?”

“According to him, they are all dead. If you could find any information though on some sort of relation to him-“

“Consider it done.”

“You’re far too kind,” Gaerwyn murmured, sipping the amber tea with dried rose petals dusted over the steaming surface. The mage was not quite used to such accommodations being allowed for someone of her station. The Ostwick Circle was constantly circulating letters, rarely with enough time to manage a few more. If the letters were not lost or tampered with, there was always the potential that the messages would be sent to the wrong receiver. To have this young aristocrat accept the task with such ease bordered on unnerving.

“I do my job, and I do it well,” Josephine stated.

The conversation shifted with relative ease to more pleasant topics, something Gaerwyn welcomed. She did not want to dwell upon her comrade’s death, not now at least.  
\--

The banquet that followed later in the evening was attended by near everyone in the encampment. As way of celebrating the Herald and also enforcing her promise to the hopeful, Gaerwyn was pressed into giving the first toast of the night. Her hand had shaken to the point where she expected her wine would slosh out of the goblet. Yet, somehow, she managed to successfully fulfill her duty. She couldn't lock gazes with any of the faithful for too long, for fear that, in doing so, she would meet a disapproving gaze. Or, even worse, the gaze of someone willing to lay down life and limb if it meant serving the supposed Herald of Andraste. Gaerwyn was all too aware that Josephine had a hand in this. While kind and nurturing, the mage had discovered the Lady Ambassador was easily as threatening a force as her colleagues. The intent behind the banquet may not have been to intimidate the lass, but it was enough to make her second guess running at the first opportune moment.

During the celebration, many of the pilgrims and soldiers present in the encampment approached her. Sometimes to inquire as to what she saw in the Fade, some to catch a glimpse of the Mark, or even to ask her blessing. Gaerwyn could not show the Mark as it was still swathed with her burns under a thick layer of bandages. A small boon, perhaps. There would be the occasional flare up, where the slash of light’s outline could vaguely be made out. During those moments, the individuals surrounding her would gasp in rapturous fascination… giving her plenty of time to mask the anguish that followed.

It seemed as if it would be near impossible to slip away, what with near everyone’s attention trained on her. She didn’t understand. She was a mage. A former Tranquil! The type of being that everyone was supposed to be fearful of, or, at the very least, express a general disdain for.

When a small distraction occurred, in the form of a scout tumbling headlong into one of the servers, Gaerwyn promptly slipped into the shadows. She utilized the chaos and made for Haven’s gates. She couldn’t breathe. How was it she could be under an open sky and not breathe?

Outside of the wall’s confines, Gaerwyn was greeted by a vast sea of stars and a round moon like a clouded looking glass. Merrymaking could be heard in the distance, but the discomfort coupled with the energy drained away the further she moved from the encampment. The snow crunched under her boots, molding to the grooves and contours decorating the soles. Gaerwyn did not hesitate to promptly slip her feet out of their trappings. Her bared toes left imprints in the powdery cloak of white. The chill was immediate. It sent a jolt of shock through her system, refreshing her senses and clearing her mind.

“I had a feeling you needed to get away,” Sister Nightingale mused. Her form detached from the shadows, as if she herself was a creature of darkness. “Just not how dire the necessity was. My scout will be pleased to know her diversion was well-received by the Herald.”

“I don’t know how to handle them,” Gaerwyn began, pulling the red scarf over the lower-half of her face. The perfume offered some solace but not an escape. “I can’t think when they crowd me…”

“You are a beacon of hope,” Leliana stated, her Orlesian accent revealing the delicate culturing of a Bard. “Do you expect them not to flock to you? After so much despair and pain and suffering, they will cling to any promise of salvation they can find.”

The mage closed her eyes. “I can’t… This is too much.”

“The celebration is a mere formality. Nailing an edict to the Chantry door, proclaiming the Inquisition to be alive once more is a small thing. It carries weight, but how does one cement it?”

“Actions,” Gaerwyn shot back. “Not a high-blown banquet in an encampment scrounging about for resources as it is.”

“Josephine has connections with a few noble houses more than willing to back the Inquisition. It was a small task that didn’t affect the integrity of our cause in the least.”

“This is ridiculous,” Gaerwyn grumbled. “Nothing has been accomplished! Nothing! The Breach is still there! I… I’m just one person.” Her voice audibly cracked.

“You are not alone, Herald,” Leliana murmured. “I knew someone who felt the same way. She was- is one of my dearest friends. She was given a task to complete, and if she had failed then Ferelden would have been swallowed by the Blight.”

“You speak of the Warden Queen?” Gaerwyn had to fight the impulse to scoff. She was not a soldier of the Grey. Nor was she a queen. She was a mage whose cage was left unlocked.

“Yes,” the bard smiled softly to herself. “She carried such a burden. I fear she still bears one that only she can manage now.”

“I’m no queen,” Gaerwyn insisted. “I am a dullard mage who somehow managed to wrest free of the Tranquil solution. I only just managed to regain control of my abilities before the Mage Rebellion and now-“

“If you wish to run, then run,” Leliana cut in, her voice sharpening like metal on a whetstone. She gestured sharply to the path leading into the wilderness. “That is your decision. No one will stop you. But can you, even as a mage, even as someone who holds no obligation or loyalty to the Chantry, can you abandon those who are looking to you for guidance? Do you hear them?” A soft chorus lifted up from the army encampment, singing as if in a sermon. Words that lilted together in a honeyed song, as if attempting to call her back into the fold.

_I am the one, who can recount what we’ve lost._

“Yes…” Gaerwyn whispered.

“You are the only one who can close these Rifts,” she continued. “So run, if you like. But when the Breach has consumed the sky and you stand below it on a field of carnage, remember you had the ability to change that future. You had the ability to save lives and redeem the image of mages everywhere.”

Leliana turned artfully on her foot and made for Haven, leaving Gaerwyn to contemplate her decision.

_I have run through the fields of pain and sighs._

The chill crept up her legs slowly, only coming to her attention now that she was left to her thoughts. Gaerwyn slipped her boots back on, the snow still clinging to her feet melting into the interior fabric.

“Damn it,” the mage cursed. The Mark was animated with a bright light, as if responding to her objections. She winced, pressing the back of her hand into her stomach in efforts to muffle the pain. “No choice then…” she whispered.

Gaerwyn trudged through the snow back to Haven, leaving deep treads in her wake. She had decided. The warmth of the torchlight cast out a halo of gold, inviting the Herald into its embrace. I am the only one who can do this, she thought to herself. ...perhaps this is fate’s twisted way of gifting me with the chance to change things. 

_Fuck_

_I am the one…_


	4. The Passion of a Tranquil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaerwyn recalls some of her past whilst speaking to Commander Cullen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! This chapter is longer than I had originally anticipated... my bad.

Sparks flew from the anvil like startled fireflies taking flight. Gaerwyn brought the hammer down once more and another plume of embers was spewed forth.

“Herald,” came a rather surprised voice. “What are you doing?”

Gaerwyn glanced up through a curtain of hair. Her face was streaked with ash and perspiration.

“Ah, Commander.” She bowed her head respectfully. “I am forging a new staff. The one that I retrieved during my escapade to the Breach is rather… shoddy.” Cullen leaned against the nearby support beam, curious.

“Did all mages in your Circle forge their staffs?”

“Not all of us. Yet the Circle largely relies on its inhabitants to care for themselves and the other residents. You learn quite a few trades by necessity,” she stated, her attentions trained on her work. “I’d imagine Kinloch hold was similar.” She received a slight nod, as if the Commander had suddenly recalled evidence contributing to Gaerwyn’s claim.

With a pair of tongs, Gaerwyn lifted up the completed spear point and dropped it into a nearby water trough. The water hissed upon contact with the heated metal and belched out a billowing whorl of steam.

“I was wondering if you would like to eat lunch together,” Cullen began. “That is, if you’re free, of course.”

“I’m a mess.” The mage smirked. “Give me a moment to wash up.”

Gaerwyn emerged from the forge shortly afterwards, her face wiped clean –save for a few streaks tracing down her jaw line and a smudge under her nose.

“They serve this stew at the tavern,” Gaerwyn said conversationally. “It has a rather… interesting texture. I think it has lamb in it? I can’t really tell.”

“Fereldan stew typically boasts that sort of obscurity, yes,” Cullen replied. “We won’t be going to the tavern though. I thought you would appreciate something along the lines of… well…” He lifted up a small canister.

“A picnic?” The mage grinned. “I would not be opposed, no. What is the occasion, Commander?”

“No occasion.” He beckoned in the general direction of the frozen lake. Gaerwyn found little reason not to follow, so she consented to being led.

“Now, what sort of rumors will you begin by being seen with the Herald? A mage, no less,” she said, her lips twitching with withheld laughter.

“If sharing in a meal sends tongues wagging, well, I must be engaging in a scandal with Josephine, Leliana, and Cassandra simultaneously. I do hope you will forgive my unrestrained passions,” he responded in kind.

They proceeded down a small incline to the disused docks. A small boat was grounded nearby and had faced the pillaging of many a looter. Now picked dry by vultures, it provided nothing beyond aesthetic. The Commander led the mage onto the surprisingly intact boardwalk, and settled down onto the edge. Gaerwyn followed suit, dangling her legs over the frosted surface of the lake.

“Here,” Cullen extracted a sandwich from the canister and placed it in Gaerwyn’s waiting hand. She thanked him and turned her attentions to her meal. The Commander placed a small cup of tea beside her, receiving a sidelong smirk. “Is your staff coming along well?” he inquired.

The mage shrugged. “The Inquisition is strapped for resources so… I am making due with what can be spared. Cassandra suggested searching for mineral deposits in the Hinterlands.”

She lifted up the cup of tea and sipped at the rose-tinted fluid. Cold. With a soft sigh, Gaerwyn placed a finger on the porcelain bottom, whispering an incantation under her breath. The tea slowly warmed, tendrils of steam rising from the cup.

“Picky about your tea?” Cullen smirked.

“Only on cold days,” she replied, removing the tip of her finger from the cup. It was heated like the embers of a cooking fire, glowing a warm orange. “Hold your cup out.”

He agreeably did so. Gaerwyn repeated the process. “There.” The coloration of her finger returned to a pale pink once more.

“You have my thanks,” he murmured somewhat uncertainly.

“Does magic bother you? If so, I can desist from using magic when around you-“

“What? No, no, it’s nothing like that,” Cullen said, growing slightly flustered in his response. “I just, have never seen magic utilized like that…”

“My mentor was a terrible influence on me. With her using magic to ease any petty trifle.” She downed half of her cup’s contents. “She would play some nasty little pranks around the tower too. I remember she once froze this bowl of soup solid. When the Knight-Commander tried to dip his spoon in, it just snapped in two.”

“Was the Ostwick Circle filled with jesters?” Honestly, every story she had told led him to think just that.

“No, just a few creative mages.” She bit into her sandwich, ripping the slice of tomato free and swallowing it whole. “Thank you, for this. It is nice to be distracted from the current plight on occasion.”

Cullen nodded. “May I ask you… you seemed happy at your Circle. Were you?”

Gaerwyn shrugged, leaning forward. “As happy as one can possibly be in that sort of situation. My mentor was like a mother. She protected me, taught me how to play the lute, and trained me in the arcane arts. She made the Circle somewhat tolerable. At the same time, there were quite a few Templars who were rather… unkind. Not to mention that after I was made Tranquil, people I used to know changed. You aren’t a person in their eyes anymore…” She bit into her sandwich, chewing thoughtfully.

“I didn’t mean to rake up any bad memories. Forgive me." The Commander quickly attempted to divert the topic. “You can play the lute?”

“Yes. By no means do I have any talent, but well, it was something I enjoyed a great deal. Mine was destroyed.” She sat up slightly. “I have spoken a great deal of myself, and yet you remain completely silent. What of you? Any tales of your Templar days that you wish to share?”

“None that I can think of,” he said quickly. His shoulders had risen, as if in preparation to fend off an attack.

“Pity, I would have loved to hear about some rousing scandal within the Templar Order.” Gaerwyn smiled. Her gentle teasing was oddly comforting for the Commander. His unease gradually melted away.

The two continued to speak for well over half an hour. They only found reason to cease conversing when Jim, one of Leliana’s scouts, appeared to hand off a report to the Commander. One that apparently required his immediate attention.

“I enjoyed this,” the Herald said with a slight smile. “We should do this again.”

The Commander found himself rather oblivious to the fact that he was grinning. “I would like that.”

“So would I. Now, my staff remains in pieces. I’d best complete what I began. Wouldn’t want to clog up Harritt’s workspace.”

Cullen watched as the mage departed, his mind reeling over their conversation. She was withholding information, which he could not fault her for, and she seemed rather bothered by her past experiences. Of course, he could say the same about himself. There was a deeply rooted inkling playing at the back of his mind, some lingering yearning to comfort this woman while she attempted to gain her footing in this new setting.

\--

“Josephine.” Cullen entered the Lady Ambassador’s office after knocking brusquely. “I need to ask a favor.”

“Oh? What is it Commander?” Josephine glanced up from her work only briefly. She delicately dabbed her quill into a new inkpot and proceeded in writing what appeared to be her twentieth letter that day.

“Would it be possible to commission a lute?”

“That’s an odd question. By no means is it impossible. I could send a soldier to Val Royeaux to acquire one. Why do you ask?” She set aside her work to give the Commander her full attention.

“The Herald can play the lute and… I think it would bring her some comfort. What with being dropped into her role at a moment’s notice. Varric did point out that she went from being prisoner to savior in the span of a day. I can only imagine how overwhelming this must all be,” Cullen explained.

“I see. In that case, I will also send for some books of music and songs also.” Josephine rose up and slowly paced the span of the room. “She would also need strings to replace any that break and…”

“What are you two doing?” Cassandra entered, staring the Ambassador and Commander down.

“Poetry!” Josephine finished. “Alright, I will have a list prepared, Commander.”

“Thank you.” He bowed his head, and then turned to take his leave.

“What’s going on?”

“We are commissioning a lute for the Herald,” Josephine stated. “Hmmm, rosewood for the neck, perhaps? No, no… maybe…”

\--

The Hinterlands were composed of vast, sweeping valleys and forests thick with trees and resources. Gaerwyn found herself outright enamored with the sights. The smell was all the more intoxicating. The oaken scent of trees, the cloying perfume of flowers, and the crispness of water rushing over a riverbed were like sweet wines. The mage clung to the nostalgia of how the grass smelled after rain, and found the sensation more than overpowering when that memory became a reality once more.

“Cassandra.” She nudged the Seeker in the arm.

“Herald, we already discussed this.” The warrior spoke through gritted teeth.

“Oh have a heart, Lady Pentaghast,” Gaerwyn pleaded.

“There is no room in Haven for pets,” Cassandra snarled.

“Not even a little space for two or ten fennecs?”

“Ten-“ Her features were lost somewhere in a contortion of rage and confusion. Gaerwyn held up a rather docile fennec, who opened its mouth to yawn, its tongue curling slightly. With its forepaw, it batted an itch behind its ear.

“That creature could be ridden with fleas or parasites,” Cassandra sputtered. “Put it down!”

“Come now, Seeker.” Varric joined the conversation. Gaerwyn had come to believe that his sole role in the Inquisition was to irritate Cassandra. “The Herald deserves some thanks for her efforts here. It’s not every day you gain the loyalty of a rift-worshipping cult, is it?”

“Absolutely not,” Cassandra repeated. She made a downward cutting motion through the air. “If we allow one, then before we know it, you will have a menagerie to tend to. No doubt the Inquisition will be expected to feed and shelter the creatures. Expenses better spent on the war effort.”

Gaerwyn sighed loudly and with no theatricality spared. The Fennec dangled its feet in empty air, wriggling about impatiently.

“I believe your rodent friend wishes to be released,” Cassandra growled.

“Fine, fine.” Gaerwyn set the creature onto the grassy turf, nudging it towards the forest. “Goodbye, Fitzwilliam,” she murmured. “Our companionship was meant for another time and another world.”

Varric snorted loudly. “Fitzwilliam?”

“He is a noble creature who deserves to be recognized as such!” Gaerwyn defended her choice of names indignantly. This only made Varric laugh all the more loudly.

“Shall we continue without any further distraction?” Cassandra gestured sharply with her shoulder. “We need to make camp before the sun sets. I’d rather not be caught by a pack of wolves without a defensible position.”

“You know,” Gaerwyn began, “Wolves don’t typically attack travelers. All the literature on how one is attacked by a pack of wolves is quite untrue. I suppose these wolves being stricken with Blight is a lovely plot hole covering of some sort-“

Cassandra released a loud groan of disgust. “This is no story, Herald,” she stated, her thick Nevarran accent making her speech seem all the more intimidating. 

“Stories make a happy ending seem possible,” Varric grumbled under his breath.

\--

_The Herald is an utter child. While she shows to be an adept diplomat with an impressive grasp on history and arcane studies, Lady Trevelyan walks about in a dreamy, slack-jawed state whenever introduced to a new environment. Though her confinement to a Circle may justify her mannerisms to some extent, it does not grant leniency in the matter of sealing the Breach. Varric only encourages the Herald’s tendencies._

_If not for the glaringly obvious fact that we need her to seal the Breach and other miscellaneous rifts, I would suggest that Lady Trevelyan be utilized solely as a go-between for the mages and the Inquisition. ___

_I can only pray that there is some improvement in how she carries herself. ___

_-Cassandra Pentaghast ___

\--

_Lady Pentaghast: ___

_I am writing on the behalf of Sister Leliana, Lady Montilyet, and myself. ___

_We encourage you to remember that Lady Trevelyan was taken to the Circle when she was eleven years of age. The value she places on walking without the constraints of a Templar handler are evident from what you have described. I can also supplement, as a former Templar ,that mages have a tendency to value even the briefest chance to operate beyond the confines of their tower. The mages of Kinloch Hold were rarely allowed outside, and this privilege was completely revoked when one mage escaped during a swimming exercise. ___

_What you are observing is the result of Lady Trevelyan having been confined for the vast majority of her adolescence and adult life. ___

_Please remember that she is still the most effective agent that the Inquisition currently has at its disposal. No doubt it will remain this way due to the Mark. ___

_-Cullen Rutherford ___

\--

“Absolutely not!” Cassandra shouted.

“B-but,” Gaerwyn began, her arms curled around the goat’s neck.

“If Haven lacks the room for one Fennec, do you honestly believe there will be enough for this monstrosity?”

“Don’t say that! Finnigan is a proud creature of the mountains,” Gaerwyn said in defense of the goat who looked on wordlessly, a glassy-eyed stare focusing on no object in particular.

“Release him, Herald. We will not have this discussion again.”

The mage did so, seeing the goat off in a rather forlorn display of parting. Where had she managed to procure a handkerchief in such a heavily wooded area?

“Where do you keep finding these ridiculous names?” Varric asked. “Would you name your kid that?”

Gaerwyn shrugged. She had not expected the Seeker to agree to the goat, but had hoped to provide herself with some amusement. Her plan had been quite fruitful as well, save for putting Cassandra into a rather sour mood. One of those moods where all communication would be severed, save for the occasional grunt of disgust.

\--

The stars were numerous and plenty, spread across the sky like silver coins. There was no moon tonight, the only light being shed was from the torches posted near the camp outskirts.

Gaerwyn had opted to sleep under a roof of stars instead of the usual canvas ceiling. Her staff lay at her side, atop the small bundle of clothing and padding she typically donned as armor. Now her only protection from the elements was the threadbare blanket covering her figure.

A soft melody tickled at her lips, notes to a tune conducted effortlessly by lute. She tapped her fingers over her chest, trying to recall the correct positioning used when strumming at the fine strings of an instrument. After mentioning her ability to play to Cullen, her mind drifted back all the more eagerly to those memories of when she would stay up tuning her lute by candlelight. Gaerwyn hadn’t realized how dearly she missed that one small luxury.

As Gaerwyn felt the lulls of sleep gently pull her into a deep embrace, stirring from within one of the tents promptly roused her attention. She turned over to see Cassandra slip outside and make for the pond nearby. The Seeker splashed water over her face, exhaling softly. She cupped her calloused hands together to take a long, uninterrupted drink.

“Cassandra?” Gaerwyn made her consciousness known merely by speaking the warrior’s name.

“Herald.” She whirled about like a child caught. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” She promptly regained her chilly composure.

“Perhaps.” Gaerwyn withdrew her legs from her blanket, stepping lightly over to the waterside.

“Do not mind me,” Cassandra said, averting her gaze. “I was simply… rereading a letter.”

“Oh? How lovely to know you maintain contact with your flame. Such a devoted lover you are!”

“Don’t be absurd!” she sputtered. “I receive reports from Haven, and sometimes they carry information that keeps me awake.”

“I jest, Cassandra. You are devoted to your cause and should carry no shame in that.”

“Shouldn’t I? History will decide if I am looked at as a madwoman or not…”

Gaerwyn shrugged. “Well, let’s concern ourselves with the present.”

“While I am here… I wish to apologize.” The words were foreign to her, that much was obvious. “I was harsh in my judgment, and dismissed you as being little more than a petty child. I didn’t think to consider what your life in the Circle was like.”

“It isn’t as if I’ve made it easy for you! But all the same, I accept your apology. I just… didn’t think I would see the world beyond the tower again.”

“I understand. Oh… you also received a letter.” Cassandra stood and took her leave without ceremony. From within the tent, Gaerwyn could hear the fervid rustling of papers being rifled through.

The Seeker returned after a moment of bated breath, holding a letter. The wax seal bore the crest of the Inquisition, indicating that the sender could only be a select few individuals.

“Thank you,” the mage murmured, breaking the seal and withdrawing the contents of the envelope.

“Goodnight, Herald.”

“Sleep well, Seeker Pentaghast.”

By magelight, Gaerwyn read the letter.

_Herald: ___

_I must preface this letter by stating it lacks formal purpose. That being so, please read this at your leisure and not feel compelled to reply- ___

Cullen, get to the bloody point, Gaerwyn groused internally.

_I would like to inquire after your wellbeing. Is the Mark affecting the ease in which you conduct daily tasks or causing you pain? As you are an agent of the Inquisition, your health is a priority- ___

Maker, my head hurts, she forced herself to keep reading.

_What of your emotional state of being? Are you faring well outside of the tower? If you wish to confide any of your concerns in me, rest assured that they will remain in the strictest of confidentiality. If you wish for credentials to prove this- ___

The mage outright fell onto her side, biting her lip to refrain from laughing. Tears of utter amusement streaked down her face. Was Cullen trying to offer his friendship in the form of a rigid formality?

Gaerwyn promptly returned to the camp and snatched up her pack. She extracted a piece of parchment, a writing quill, and an inkwell. She then proceeded to retrieve Cassandra’s discarded shield and use the battered surface as a desk.

_Cullen: ___

_Maker’s breath man, you go on about the informal purpose of your letter and yet you resort to using such high-blown rhetoric! Please, you are not writing a report to me. There is no need for you to act as if you are. I assure you, you aren’t being graded for the quality of your diction. ___

_Now: the Mark does not affect my day to day life. Nor have I acquired any injury which will amount to anything more than a scar. I appreciate your concern. ___

_As for my mental state of being, it is as it always has been. My personal concerns are frivolous, and are mostly amounting to a petty irritation over Cassandra not allowing me to adopt a mountain goat named Finnigan as my personal pet. Or Fitzwilliam the fennec. He will not be forgotten. ___

_I am adapting well enough. It is sometimes disconcerting not being surrounded by stone walls. I never realized that I could miss something that I disliked so much. Granted, some of the amenities the tower provided I now yearn for. I miss the library. I miss getting lost in an adventure that I could set aside and return to on another day. Or a place where I could practice magic with more liberality and exchange my findings with my colleagues. ___

_There is much I would enjoy discussing with you. If you fear that I do not believe you trustworthy, then rest assured that I think in the contrary. Yet I strongly dislike putting my concerns to paper. Perhaps we can share in another meal together when I return and converse then? ___

_-Gaerwyn Trevelyan ___

After having read her letter over, the mage stuffed it into an envelope. She sealed it with red wax, pressing the crest of the Inquisition into its unmarred surface.

The letter was placed in a pile of reports that would be sent to Haven with morning’s first light. From there, the Commander would receive his reply with some haste.

Gaerwyn settled back onto the ground, wrapping the blanket around her body. She fell asleep under the watchful gaze of the stars overhead.

\--

When the Herald returned from the Hinterlands, she did so with little expectation of being greeted by anyone. Granted she was fast friends with both Blackwall and the Iron Bull, both appeared to be absorbed in their own tasks around camp.

To be completely honest with herself, Gaerwyn wanted to return to her small house and sleep for the next few days. She greeted Cullen prior to entering Haven’s confining walls with a slight gesture of her hand.

“I am afraid I can’t speak at the moment,” he began, his mouth already forming around the words to apologize.

“That quite alright,” she amended, supplementing a gentle smile to put him at ease. “I don’t expect you to abandon your duties simply to converse with me. We shall speak later.” Gaerwyn departed without another word. There was a small fear needling at the back of her mind, making her question whether she had wronged Cullen in some measure. Perhaps he viewed her as self-centered? She had spoken a little about her past and had enjoyed sharing these experiences. Gaerwyn had thought her prattling had not been overmuch though…

“I should simply stop speaking about myself,” she grumbled, shoving her door open. Upon her arrival being announced, a servant had taken to delivering her meal and lighting a fire in the hearth. It crackled on merrily, supplying warmth and the scent smoldering wood to her quarters.

Only when she approached her bedside, fingers tugging her scarf off and then working at the clasps of her enchanter’s coat, did she notice the package. It had been covered in swathes of cotton and securely knotted with an almost superfluous amount of twine. With a sigh, Gaerwyn withdrew her knife and proceeded to saw through the package’s bindings. After having tossed the ties aside, the mage slid the fabric off of the object. A soft gasp left her lips as she stared down at the instrument.

A lute with a polished rosewood back and an ivory face stared up at her. The rosette was carved to resemble the image of a rose, and knotwork depicting vines danced over the lute’s surface. It was, in a word, beautiful. As Gaerwyn lifted the instrument up by the neck, a slip of paper fell free of the package’s wrappings. It was a note detailing the basics of the order:

_Lady Montilyet:_

_As per your request, we have crafted your order with the utmost care for details. I hope that the Herald enjoys this gift, as we found great pleasure in encouraging her passion for music. Please inform us if any issues arise with the completed product, and I will tend to the repairs myself. ___

-I.O. __

Gaerwyn hugged the instrument to her chest, finding it near impossible to fight back the onslaught of tears. When she turned to the door –fully intent on approaching the Lady Ambassador- the mage took notice of the books resting on the table nearby. Tomes of music and poetry with another note carelessly placed atop the small stack.

_Gaerwyn:_

_We know that you did not ask for this, and we are indebted to you for remaining. No, for saving us from the threat and still remaining when we could hardly offer you anything in return. Simply speaking of our gratitude, and tossing a lute your way still seems like an insult in the face of your sacrifice. Unfortunately, this is all we can offer for the time as thanks. We hope that this will ease your burden for the time._

_-Josephine ___

__“How did they…” The conversation with Cullen suddenly surfaced in her thoughts. The mage found laughter bubbling against her lips. She reverently set the lute onto her bed and departed from her home._ _

__Gaerwyn paused at the entrance to the Haven, looking out upon the training grounds. Cullen stood amongst his recruits, offering advice to a rather haggard looking soldier. He demonstrated how to correctly hold a blade and then required the same stance to be imitated by the observer. As he straightened up and sheathed his weapon, Cullen caught sight of the Herald._ _

__He smiled uncertainly at her, and the notion was met with a grin. She waved sheepishly at him before disappeared once more into Haven. If Gaerwyn had even the slightest of idea of what sway she held with the Commander, she may have known how even the slightest gesture of hers set his mind reeling. Yet she was blissfully unaware, her thoughts focusing mainly on the fine instrument awaiting her return._ _

__\--_ _

__Having run his soldiers through endless drills that day, Cullen finally decided to retire for the evening. The moon glimmered overhead like a looking glass, and illuminated the snow cloaking the encampment below. He inhaled through his nose, filling his lungs with the sweet night air. His hand drifted to his pocket, where the Herald’s letter had been stored for safe keeping, folded with the utmost care. The sweet scent of embrium and elfroot wafted from the page, indicating that she had been harvesting alchemical resources whilst in the Hinterlands._ _

__As Cullen ascended the staircase leading into Haven, a soft sound caught his ear. He paused and closed his eyes. She was playing. By the Maker, the passion plucking at those strings was enough to draw tears. Certainly, the woman would falter on occasion, or a note would ring forth with a discordant twang, but she still played on. It was like balm for a wound. So gentle, and yet it burned with emotions that could only be conveyed through music._ _

__The Commander approached the Herald’s quarters intent on hearing her play more clearly. Her singing swelled forth the closer Cullen dared to tread, and the mage’s soft voice washed over him. Some of the words were incomprehensible from where he stood now. As much as he may have wished to join her by the firelight, Cullen suddenly felt the shackles of propriety and duty viciously restraining him._ _

__With a sigh, he turned to leave. As he climbed the staircase leading to the Chantry, the lilting melody grew all the fainter. It was with heavy heart that he entered the confines of the sanctuary. He crept into his quarters so to not disturb those who slept on the floors just beyond his doorway._ _

__“Maker’s breath,” Cullen whispered to himself as he gently pressed his door shut. The silence was unbearable. He unbolted the window, slowly easing it open. It had jammed at one point in time, making it a tedious chore to force it ajar. Yet the Commander managed, and the chill of the night seeped the chambers._ _

__And barely, just barely, could he make out the soft swells of music in the distance._ _


	5. Winter Antics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaerwyn finds a new use for Fade Stepping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early update because of midterms. Thank you for reading!

“Herald?” Cullen called, weaving his way through the pine trees. He had been informed by a bystander that Gaerwyn had made for the wooded area near camp not been ten minutes earlier. So far, the Commander’s search was fruitless. The trees closed in on him like the smothering arms of a parent. If the Herald had not heard him at this point, then clearly he had been misled and she was not presently available.

As he turned to forsake the search, a ball of snow struck him squarely on the back of his head. Debris from the projectile settled into his hair and in the folds of his surcoat.

“Herald?” he turned, but was met with no indication of the woman’s presence. Not the tail of her red scarf, the impish grin, or the petite footprints he had come to associate with the mage. The only tracks in the snow were his and-

Another white missile hit his arm. “Where are you?” Cullen asked, raising his voice and hearing it echo in the crisp air. A small giggle sounded to his immediate left. He sharply whirled about… only to have a snowball slam against his back. The laughing intensified.

“Where are you?” He had to swallow his own amusement. “Herald?”

“You aren’t even trying,” Gaerwyn whispered in his ear. Her hands were lightly pressing down on his pauldrons and-

He had turned around only to find a dainty set of footprints directly behind him. “How are you doing this? Where did you make off to?”

“That isn’t what you should be asking. Not asking where I am, but where I could be.” The voice was issued from roundabout the pine tree immediately in front of him. Cullen bolted forward, rounding the tree-

Another snowball greeted him. He had just enough time to grab Gaerwyn around the waist as she tried to fade step. They fell together like two toppled saplings.

“I am defeated!” She squealed with delight. Locks of unruly red hair covered her eyes and coiled around her lips. Cullen found the laughter infectious and joined the mage in her amusement. A prolonged moment passed before he realized that his arms were still wrapped about her middle. His face was hovering a dangerous few inches from her undulating chest.

“Forgive me,” he managed to say in a weak stutter.

“It was either me or you.” Gaerwyn grinned, sitting up on her elbows. “Did you require something of me?”

“I had a few reports to pass your way, but nothing that requires your immediate attention,” he told her. She took the hand he offered and permitted herself to be drawn to her feet.

“Oh? Why do you say that?” She raised an eyebrow, the left corner of her mouth twitching up into a smirk.

“Mostly because I must now restore my honor in glorious combat.”

“What does that-“ A snowball hit her shoulder. The sheer look of unadulterated delight crossing her features was enough to make Cullen second guess his actions. Gaerwyn suddenly disappeared from his sight.

“By the Maker, are you rea-“ He had just enough time to bear his shield to an oncoming blow.

“I most certainly am. Ah, templars and mages at war again!” sang the disembodied voice.

Cullen advanced towards the voice, but then abruptly banked left. He rushed the tree, and was greeted by Gaerwyn’s yelp of surprise. As he reached out Gaerwyn stepped backwards. She blurred out of sight once more.

“Come now, you are certainly onto my tells now, aren’t you?” Gaerwyn asked.

“Are you trying to be found?”

“Absolutely, but it would be insulting to not give you a challenge.” A burst of cold air brushed close to Cullen's arm, ruffling the fur his surcoat.

It took him two minutes to locate the mage. She was now standing outside of the grove of pine trees… with a cloud of snowballs hovering overhead. Cullen took an instinctive step back, looking about for some form of natural cover. Maker, when had a simple snowball fight turned into something horrifying?

“Don’t you even-“

Five projectiles detached from the mass, firing themselves in close proximity to his feet.

“Do you yield, Ser Cullen?” she asked.

“Never,” He braced his shield, expecting the worst. Except... Gaerwyn moved once more. The throng of waiting missiles abruptly fell from the air into a heap before him, throwing up a fine mist of frost.

An embrace from behind caused the breath to leave his body. “Thank you,” she murmured against his back.

“For what?”

“The lute,” she stated, stepping out in front of him. “You were behind it, weren’t you?”

He nodded mutely. “It was the least we could do, Herald.”

“Gaerwyn. Please… friends shouldn’t have to use titles.”

“Gaerwyn…” The name was soothing on his lips. “Do you lure all your friends out into the middle of nowhere and then bombard them as thanks?”

“Well I didn’t want to be boring about it. I considered sending roses, but I’m afraid that the only ones offered in Val Royeaux didn’t compliment your eyes.” She took a step away from the man, clasping her hands behind her back.

Cullen grinned. “You are an odd one, Gaerwyn.”

She released a short hum. “Am I now? Well, I could be much worse, now couldn’t I?”

“Mmm.” He nodded. “Now, I believe you owe me a rematch.”

“A rematch?” A snowball grazed her arm. “Oh,” a sinister glint was suddenly sparked in her gaze.

\--

“Are you honestly trying to tell me that you witnessed the Commander and the Herald engaging in a juvenile snowball fight?” Cassandra growled at the scout as they made for Haven's gates.

“Yes, ma’am.” Any further conversation was murdered by the Seeker's vicious glare. Of course she wouldn't believe that poor scout. The Herald she could envision starting a snowball fight. The Commander? The man was all work and no play. If that silly mage had attempted to engage him in that sort of ribaldry, no doubt he would request that she desist. Out of everyone in the encampment, at least she took him seriously!

“That is utterly unbelievable!”

“I will not yield!” Cullen’s voice roared forth.

“Then you shall face pummeling by snowball!” Gaerwyn sang back.

The two ran into Cassandra’s line of sight at that exact moment. Cullen arms brimmed forth with shoddily wrought snowballs, and Gaerwyn racing after him with a… large cloud of snowy missiles hanging over her head.

For the first time in years, the Seeker found herself speechless. Stunned into abject silence, she watched for at least another minute as the Inquisition's esteemed Commander and its revered Herald pelted the other with snow.

“You two!” The Seeker shouted upon regaining her bearings. Gaerwyn shrieked in sudden surprise and impulsively sent ten snowballs in Cassandra’s direction. Each hit its mark.

“Cassandra! Are you alright? I didn’t mean to- you just… sod.”

\--

“You’re trying to tell me that Cassandra…” Leliana drifted off in disbelief.

“Yes, ma’am,” was her scout’s reply.

“Dismissed.”

As the scout exited, three dejected individuals entered. All of whom were covered in partially melted snow and were trailing puddles in their wake.

“Do you mean to tell me that you are two hours late to a war council because you got caught up in a childish squabble?” Leliana asked incredulously. There was no hiding it. No amount of bardic training could have prepared her for this.

As if on cue, all three looked down at their feet. “Army morale?” Gaerwyn supplemented helplessly.

Cassandra audibly sighed. “I was pulled into it… you have my apologies.”

Cullen and Gaerwyn shared a sidelong grin. The harsh clearing of Leliana's throat was enough to redirect the pair’s attention. True, the snowball fight was hardly professional, but it had been quite the diversion. The Spymaster looked at the Herald. For the first time since being pushed into the role of a religious figurehead, Gaerwyn seemed genuinely happy. Her eyes glowed with warmth and her words were spoken with in breathless sort of excitement.

“Well, nothing to do about it now," Leliana ceded the point. "Shall we discuss the pressing issue of the mage-templar war in the Hinterlands, or would I be encroaching upon the valuable time you need for your snow fort?”

“Pffft, I can make one in half a minute,” Gaerwyn boasted.

“You play dirty,” Cullen grumbled.

“And you honorably, even when you could potentially be lost in an avalanche. Are you mad?”

“Now,” Leliana interjected. “Shall we begin?”

The war meeting lasted well over four hours. By the time that the members of the council had gone their separate ways, the dulcet oranges and pinks of sunset were overtaking the horizon, and the moon was crowning the Frostbacks. Cullen departed from the Chantry last, having taken a moment to kneel and pray. He stepped out into the desolate silence of camp. Music coupled with laughter rose up from the general direction of the tavern. Save for that, the only sound was the low humming of the wind.

He paused long enough to gather his bearings… and long enough for another snowball to strike his arm.

Cullen veered around the side of the Chantry, finding it deserted. Except for a set of dainty footprints. The Commander’s face relaxed into a smile.

“You’d best find someplace warm, Commander,” Gaerwyn murmured, a playful tone touching her lips. Cullen didn’t move. He expected that he would be met with another desolate reminder of his solitude. “Come now,” she placed a hand on his arm. “The Inquisition wouldn’t be able to function with you bedridden.”

“Of course,” he replied. Having little expectation that Gaerwyn’s body would be attached to her voice when he turned, Cullen glanced over his shoulder. She stood there with one eyebrow raised and her arms folded over her chest in expectation. “All right,” he chuckled. “I suppose I shouldn’t contribute a cold to your growing list of grievances for me.”

“Sleep well, Commander,” she said gently. In the moonlight, her pale green eyes seemed to glint with a strange incandescence. Gaerwyn lurched to a halt a mere breadth of a moment after turning to leave, “I find it admirable that you would stand and fight, even if the odds were stacked against you. Just… don’t forget that retreat is still an option.”

With that, she was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter was extremely fluffy. But lemme tell you, I needed to write something fluffy a little while ago and THIS came to mind. My thought process was: "So fade step lets you move from one place to another? What sort of pranks could one pull... I'm writing this down."
> 
> Seriously though, the first time I tried using Fade Step was in a fight with a high dragon. Solas had it, and I said, "What does this do? OHDEARMAKER, NO! WHY ARE YOU BENEATH THE DRAGON?! WHAT HORRIFIC SORCERY IS THIS?! BY ALL THAT YOU HOLD DEAR, SOLAS, RUN!!!!!"
> 
> ...seriously though, this is one of my favorite spells just because of how hard I would troll people with it.


	6. Houses and Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaerwyn attempts to build houses without magic. Antics ensue.
> 
> Cullen suffers from Lyrium withdrawal. Gaerwyn has no idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the lack of chapter last week. A number of things came up that prevented me from getting around to editing and completing this chapter, namely a short story I had to write for class that turned out to be not so short... at all.
> 
> I also had to write this chapter out, because when I was looking through what I had already written, I realized there was a point later on that appeared too abrupt for my liking. Therefore, this chapter was born. I'm thinking of posting the following chapter sometime this week, but it will be significantly shorter than the chapters that have preceded it. That was another reason for prolonging my post as well. It didn't seem fair to only post three pages worth of writing.
> 
> Anyways, thank you so much for reading! Enjoy!

“Commander, are you well?” One of the Templars under Cullen’s command approached him. Upon leaving the Order, a few of the soldiers he had in his charge at Kirkwall chose to follow.

“Ah, yes.” Cullen grunted, removing his hand from his forehead. “A slight headache. Nothing that should be of any concern. How is the building progressing?”

“At a rather impressive rate. The trees that our soldiers felled and the resources that the Herald has acquired are being utilized to the best of our ability.” His officer handed him a report detailing what materials were being used and what still remained in storage.

That was right. Gaerwyn had worked alongside Josephine to open trade routes, and the merchants, in turn, agreed to peddle their wares to the Inquisition. She was settling into her role well enough, if not for the visible discomfort she expressed whenever referred to by her title. She visibly bristled whenever called “your worship,” as if the honorific was an insult.

Cullen was not oblivious to the hours –and sometimes days- that she would spend hidden away in her provided quarters. When finally emerging, her eyes would be rimmed with red and her voice subdued. Gaerwyn would then carry on with her duties. Her back straight and her steps calculated.

“Bull! Hold still!” Gaerwyn’s voice rang out, irritability tinging her words.

“Sorry, Boss,” was the response.

Cullen and his subordinate officer rounded the corner. The army recruits were at work building additional housing for refugees and pilgrims- two groups which were contributing to the rapidly growing population at Haven. Amongst the soldiers were the members of the Inner Circle, or those who had agreed to help at least. Vivienne and Solas had both expressed indifference to the project, and characters like Sera were not necessarily wanted. The rogue would probably play at sabotaging little elements of the construction site.

“I’m almost done up here,” Gaerwyn said to Bull. The mage was standing on one of his shoulders so she could nail a board into place. “That should do it." She hopped off of the Qunari, thanking him with a gentle slap on his forearm.

“The Herald seems to be enjoying herself,” his officer mused.

“That she does,” Cullen agreed. He caught the mage’s gaze, and they shared in a smile. It took him a moment to realize that he was staring. “We shall speak later,” he said, clearing his throat and dismissing the Templar.

He cautiously approached Gaerwyn, who had returned her attention to nailing siding into place. “I suppose the Circle also taught you carpentry?” he asked, cursing himself for what could be perceived as condescending.

“You seem surprised,” she responded. “I was a Tranquil. We did most of the remedial work around the tower. If there was a leak, it would be patched up with mortar or planking. Sometimes we had to construct furniture. Oh, we also heated the baths for the Templars. Let me say… the eyes did not go wanting.”

Her last remark forced a blush to his face. She smirked. Evidently she had elicited the reaction she had set out for.

“Forgive me,” he began. “I suppose that was rather rude of me. The Ferelden Circle was different in that Templars and mages worked to repair the tower together. Very few actually had any skill in a trade.”

“Being on the run for most of your life will do that,” she replied, taking his remark in stride.

“I offended you. That was not my intention.” He couldn't recall a time where he was so strapped for words.

“Headaches make a task out of thinking clearly.” Gaerwyn pulled herself up onto a nearby barrel, propping her head in one hand.

“How can you tell?”

Gaerwyn set her hammer aside, brushing the splinters and dust from her gloves. “You had one yesterday during the War Meeting. You kept rubbing your temples, and you kept your gaze down. Like you were trying to avoid the light. You excused yourself by saying you felt ill, and here you are, acting very much like you did yesterday. Eyes on the ground and hand to your head.”

“How-“

“You think that Templars were the only ones observing the mages? Or that mages didn't watch your Order in turn? You learn to pick up on the tiny details out of necessity."

“I… forgive me, I did not mean to offend you as I have.”

“You must think me a delicate flower to be so easily wounded,” she cracked a smile, more for his benefit than hers. “I honestly thought we were having a friendly conversation. I still struggle to be quite as… expressive as I once was.”

“Ah…”

“Do you suffer from headaches often?”

“More than I would care to admit.” He was genuinely surprised that Gaerwyn did not know. Or, if she did, she was playing at being oblivious.

“My mentor often suggested a lemon ginger tea infusion for headaches. Her lover would drink it by the gallon, I swear.”

“Lover?”

“She was very open in her relationship with a Templar,” Gaerwyn shrugged. “At least with me. I doubt that either would have benefited if they didn't exercise even a little secrecy.”

“I… ah…”

“You seem surprised.”

“It isn’t unheard of for a Templar and a mage to engage in… amorous activities together. I was never comfortable with the idea. In certain cases, it seemed as if one of my order was taking advantage of their charges.” Cullen leaned against the partially completed house, resting one hand on the pommel of his sword. More often than not he did this to remain grounded when the headaches worsened.

“Well… I can see why Cassandra chose you for the Inquisition.” Gaerwyn turned, her gaze locking with his. Those fade-green eyes would never cease to amaze him.

“Why is that?”

“Why, a Templar with your faith and sense of honor? You’re a better fit than most. The hair is a nice addition as well…” She bit her lip and glanced away.

Cullen fought the need to retreat from the conversation, avoiding the inclination to resort to old habits. He knew quite well that his blush was worsening.

“You should rest, Commander,” she said gently. “Your fever won’t improve if you neglect to sleep.”

He thanked the Maker that she was oblivious by some small measure and didn’t realize his blush resulted from an entirely different reason. “I should oversee the training of the Inquisition’s recruits.”

“You have officers who can function one day without your instruction.” She sighed. “Or I could train them.”

“How would you- no. You are not allowed to train my recruits in evasion by pelting them with balls of ice.”

“They’d regret getting careless.” She attempted to defend her credibility in the matter, while also crossing her arms over her chest in a show of petulance. “Climbing ice walls is also off the table, I suppose?”

“It was never on it!”

Gaerwyn cast him a sidelong grin. “Spoilsport.”

The laughter bubbled up from his chest, rumbling in his throat. “Very well. I suppose sleep is in order…”

“Go.” She nudged him in the direction of the Chantry.

“Very well, my Lady Herald.” He bid the mage farewell, and turned to leave.

\--

Gaerwyn watched as Cullen departed, his gait labored by his headache. Her eyebrows knit together in a show of concern, one she had to promptly disguise. She was approached by Varric, who in turn directed her attention to her shoddy handiwork. The plank she had just nailed into place was uneven and was prying itself free of the house’s framework.

“Maker’s breath,” she growled. She wouldn’t lie, she was thankful Cullen wasn’t there to see the embarrassment that was a result of her carpentry.

“What sort of repairs did you do around the tower?” Varric inquired.

“I fixed the leg on a table once…”

He broke into a fit of laughter. “Seriously?”

“All the repairs to the tower infrastructure were temporary,” she argued. “If it was raining the mortar couldn’t dry. We nailed planks up to prevent damage to the library and artifacts.”

Varric’s laughter gradually died away to nothing.

With a hasty wave of her hand and a short incantation, Gaerwyn lifted up a large pile of planks and proceeded to place them in order. She formed a wall within only moments.

“Bull, I can hold these for a few minutes. Would you kindly nail these in place?”

Varric broke into a fresh gale of laughter. “Alright, alright, you made your point! You really don’t have to prove anything here.”

“I was worried my magic would make the soldiers uneasy… unfortunate to see I was right.”

While Bull and Blackwall worked at completing the wall, Gaerwyn kept her attention trained on the nearby cluster of individuals dressed in the Inquisition uniform.

“They won’t be a problem, trust me,” Varric said reassuringly. “Even if they tried, would they even be able to hold a candle to you?”

“It wouldn’t matter. They have numbers on their side. I’d be at a disadvantage.”

“Well, aren’t you a ray of sunshine today? What’s bothering you?”

Gaerwyn released the magic holding the planks up to the house’s frame, pleased to see that the coverings remained stable. The writer gestured for her to walk with him, which she did. The two returned to the cook fire that Varric tended to gravitate to during his time at camp. After offering her a mug of ale, he sat down across from her and waited for her to speak.

“Did I tell you about my friend Samahl?”

“No,” he shook his head. “I mean, I saw the body, but… you’ve been awfully quiet about who she was. At least with me."

“She came with me to the Conclave, along with one of our colleagues. She was the most compassionate individual I ever met, and… she died. You were there when I found her and…” Gaerwyn wiped at her eyes in a failed attempt at subtlety. “I keep thinking there was more I could have done to save her. I…” Varric placed a large hand on her shoulder.

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with mourning. The problem happens when you start to blame yourself for something you had no control over. Do you honestly think that Samahl would want that?” the dwarf asked.

“No… I just.” She buried her face in her hands, inhaling softly. “I can’t shake the feeling that I failed her.”

“Well, I think that may be something you have to work through. Just know that you have people here who are willing to listen. Probably doesn’t mean as much since we’ve only just met and all but, well…”

“Thank you, Varric. I will try.” She took a large swig of ale, and then challenged the dwarf to a game of Wicked Grace. He was happy to oblige, most likely knowing that the Herald of Andraste couldn’t play a hand of cards to save her life.

\--

The door to Cullen’s personal quarters opened and shut softly. His hand went for the sword he kept by his bedside, only to falter when he heard gentle humming. He had listened to the discordant tune on a few previous occasions, typically when the Herald had walked into the war council room.

“Gaerwyn?” He rolled over, consciously covering his bare chest with his blanket. It wasn’t like him to be so concerned with maintaining appearances, not when he openly expressed his disdain for the aristocratic game made of it.

“I’m not here,” she stated, placing a bowl of soup on his bedside table. 

He forced a soft laugh. “Clearly. What are you doing?”

“I’m still helping with the construction of houses.” She placed a steaming cup of tea alongside the soup, and then a small tin of an unidentified mixture to the side.

Cullen sat up slowly. “Then who is in my room currently?”

“I try to respect the privacy of my friends. What business of mine is it who they decide to invite to their quarters in the waning hours of the evening?”

“Gaerwyn...”

The mage sighed, sitting down on the edge of Cullen’s bed. He shifted to allow her more room, taken slightly aback by when she rose once more. “I apologize. It was not my intention to make you uncomfortable.” She tucked a stray tendril of hair behind her ear, hiding her embarrassment with the motion.

“You didn’t. You surprised me, certainly, but nothing more than that,” he admitted. “Please, sit down.”

Gaerwyn consented, and settled onto the soft bed once again. She leaned forward to place the back of her hand against Cullen’s forehead. “You’re still a little warm. Not feverish anymore. That’s always good.” She smiled gently and retracted her hand. It may have been the very first time she had touched him with a bare hand. It may have been the first time that they had even touched for a prolonged stint of time!

She quickly slipped her glove over her hand, most likely to conceal the still healing burns.

“The tea is the blend I told you about earlier. I made it myself, so if it’s terrible, that is completely my fault.” She shrugged, as if already accepting defeat.

“Thank you. You didn’t have to do this, you know.” This entire affair made him feel oddly embarrassed. The sense that he could not, in fact, do anything to express his gratitude was grating on his nerves. There had to be something!

“But I did. The deed is done. The die has been cast. The nug has been skinned.”

Cullen snorted, his laughter getting the best of him.

“How is your head?” she asked, tilting her own to the side. Her features were gently outlined by candlelight, her eyes glinting.

“Better… still a bit sore, but, well, not so bad.” He smiled uncertainly.

“I’m glad. You’ll also be pleased to know that the camp has only been partially singed from a rather spontaneous bout of lightning…”

“Are you serious?”

“Rarely.” They shared in a smile. “Rest for a little longer, Commander. You deserve it more than most.”

“Gaerwyn, thank you.” He lifted the cup of tea to his mouth, finding the scent of ginger and lemon intoxicating.

\--

The mage nodded. She departed from Cullen’s chambers without another word. Pulling her scarf close to her nose, she took in the warm scent of the perfume that lingered.

\--

“Herald.” The Commander addressed her with the typical formality used in public situations.

“Ah, how are you feeling?” Gaerwyn set her hammer aside, leaning casually against a crooked beam. It trembled, threatening to come undone.

“The headache isn’t gone, but the rest was needed. As was the tea,” he said, a smile forming. A genuine curve of his lips that she had never witnessed him share with anyone else.

“A pity that the ache is still there,” she said softly.

“N-no, you have nothing to worry about. This is quite common for me—Look out!” Cullen tackled Gaerwyn just as one of the wooden beams freed itself and sent the house framework toppling. Together the two made a clumsy descent to the ground.

The mage instinctively latched onto Cullen, her hands clutching onto his fur mantle. Her head was thrust into the crook of the Commander’s neck, where she could smell the metallic tang of armor, the rich fragrance of leather, and the tickling aroma of ginger and lemongrass.

“Are you alright?” Cullen asked, pulling back and examining Gaerwyn’s flushed face.

“I’m fine. What about… dear Maker.” Her hand flew to his head, where a trickle of blood was seeping through his hair and running down his jaw line. “Hold still.”

“It can’t be that bad, can it-“ He found himself interrupted by the sight of Gaerwyn ripping off the hem of her tunic, leaving her midriff exposed by the uneven tear. His words came out in a jumbled mess. The mage proceeded to apply pressure to the injury, her eyes never leaving his.

“It’s alright,” she whispered. “You honestly think even one of your soldiers would desert you? I swear, a flock ran off to alert Adan once they saw blood. You have good men under your command.”

Not but a moment later, the crotchety alchemist arrived with a large bag of herbs slung over his back and a vast array of potions piled up in his arms.

“How bad, Herald?” he asked, nudging her aside.

“A scratch.” The two were working in perfect unity to mend a rather minor injury. It was almost humorous.

“Do you want to pass out, lad?” Adan asked gruffly.

“N-no.”

“Vomit?”

“No.”

“Take up learning the Remigold?”

“What? No!”

“Pity,” he glanced over at Gaerwyn and shrugged. “After the bleeding eases up, put this on the injury.” He placed a container of green salve in the Herald’s hand, and turned his attentions to preparing the bandages.

“I’m fine, really. You two worry too much.”

“Look around, Commander,” Adan ordered.

Cullen did so, and saw that near every soldier under his command had rushed to see if they may be of any assistance. Some were hopping from foot to foot, others were biting on their lips to refrain from bursting into tears.

“I’m alright,” he announced. “As you were… come now, be about your business!”

The soldiers were animate once more, rushing off to their respective posts.

“This is my fault… I couldn’t build a house if I made a pact with a demon,” Gaerwyn grumbled.

“Let’s not be hasty.” Cullen tried to joke through the sting of the salve. He grit his teeth together to fight the impulse to cry out.

“Move aside, lass.” Adan grunted. He wrapped the bandages firmly around the commander’s head. “That should hold. You can take that off tomorrow night. Come to me after so I can inspect the injury.”

“Understood.” When he had extracted the desired agreement, Adan left the vicinity.

Gaerwyn helped Cullen to his feet, bracing his arms against hers. “Are you alright?” she asked gently.

“I’m fine, really,” he assured her. “Perhaps you should refrain from constructing a house of all things…”

“I can build a house with magic just fine,” she retorted. “It just didn’t seem like the wisest of ideas, with all things considered.”

“Gaerwyn…”

“I know,” she replied, her tone soft. “I was careless. If it had been me, it wouldn’t have mattered if I was injured. Not to me. The fact that you were hurt though-“

“It’s alright. Just… be more careful next time.”

The mage deflated some, clearly indicating that Cullen had defused the purpose she may have found in arguing. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t—“

Cullen shrugged. “Could I expect less from our esteemed Herald? You certainly keep life interesting.”

She reached up, grazing her gloved fingers over the injury. Her bright green eyes softened as her thoughts carried her somewhere that Cullen could not follow. He couldn’t say her touch was unwanted, but it was prolonged. “I should return to work,” she said with a slight start. “Please, don’t hesitate to let Adan or myself know if the injury takes a turn for the worse.”

With a quickened pace, Gaerwyn returned to aid in the building efforts. Unlike before though, she freely used her magic to stabilize the housing materials as she worked, and kept her attention trained between her surroundings and her work. Most likely to avoid cause for another mishap.

Cullen’s mind lingered some, constantly returning to the feel of her touch against his temple. How soothing and gentle she was when she allowed herself to slow down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One thing I've rarely done for any of my previous fanfiction characters is give them any skills outside of combat. They certainly enjoyed reading or writing, but I had to wonder what they would do if they couldn't earn a living through fighting. Wars and conflicts end eventually, so where does that leave a character then? That's where I decided Gaerwyn would have to have some skill outside of playing the lute or practicing magic in a conducive manner. Granted, she can't build a house, I did want to imply she had some aptitude for smaller projects. (I secretly headcanon that Gaerwyn wants to build a house without magic at a later point in her life... if it's my headcanon, does that make it canon? *Gasp* Paradox?)


	7. A Late Night Rendezvous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaerwyn and Cullen find themselves gravitating to the Chantry one evening, both afflicted by nightmares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!

_Gaerwyn dreamed of the searing white hot brand hovering over her brow, the sweltering heat radiating from its surface. Her breath catches behind the gag in her mouth. Tears race down her face and mucus pools on her upper lip. Her sobs wracking through her made her chest quake violently._

_The brand plunges down and her wails of anguish slowly peter to a stop. She feels only calm. A disquieting emotion that gradually seeps into her mind and permeates her being to the core. She is at the center of a raging storm. She is one point of calm in a sweeping maelstrom of chaos. The want to cry is lost on her. How do you cry? How do you experience joy? Anger seems so trivial._

_Her binds are removed, and her hands are freed._

_“Come with me,” her fellow Tranquil assists her in standing. Gaerwyn removes her gag and trails behind. The door to the chamber is unbolted and she steps through._

_The cloying scent of sulfur plagues the air. Ash rains down from the sickly gray heavens… and the bodies of the hopeful are twisted into agonizing attempts at shielding themselves from the explosion._

_“Where are we?” she asks the Tranquil. Turning… she is met with Samahl’s piercing gaze._

_“The Conclave, Lethallan. Have you already forgotten?”_

_“N-no…”_

_She watches as Samahl’s face contorts with rage, and her body spouts tendrils of fire, lacing the elf in blistering heat. “Samahl, let me help,” Gaerwyn whispered, reaching out for the her friend._

_“You left me to die,” was the tearful response. “I adored you. You were my protector and my sister and my best friend and my Lethallan and my student… and… and… and…” The surrounding corpses jolt to life, their limbs and joints emitting sharp snaps as they are flexed. “You should be one of us,” Samahl finally completed her sentence. The fleshy husks reach out for Gaerwyn, and she makes to flee. Her legs are anchored by her terror._

A scream tore from Gaerwyn’s mouth as she tumbled out of bed in a tangle of fur blankets and limbs. It took a disoriented moment of blinking and deep breathing to recompose herself. The cottage walls seemed to press in on her, threatening suffocation. The fire in the hearth had long since died out, and the evening chill had begun to settle in like an undesired guest. She grasped up her boots and jacket, throwing the additional accessories on without ceremony.

It was far past midnight, and the window of time for a relaxed evening promenade had long since waned to a close. With padded foot, Gaerwyn made her way to the Chantry. The sanctuary was always available for the troubled of mind and soul… both of which she was. Rarely had she ever taken solace in the Circle’s Chantry, but she found herself drawn in by the ambiance that Haven’s provided.

Candles were clustered together in various corners and lined the aisle. Much to her pleasant surprise, Gaerwyn discovered that the usual souls who chose to make the Chantry into their sleeping quarters were not there. She had been pleased to learn from Cassandra earlier that day, that many of the pilgrims and refugees were able to shift their residence from the chapel to the houses erected earlier that month.

Gaerwyn retreated into a corner of the sanctuary, settling down on a bench. She closed her eyes to the honey gold light emitted from the Chantry candles and remained there for an unmarked stint of time.

The mage awoke at some point in the night after a dreamless rest to the sound of armored boots ringing over the cobblestone floor. There was a slight rustling, and then a soft sigh. Keeping to the shadows, Gaerwyn approaches the candle lit aisle. “Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood the Maker’s will is written.”

“Cullen.” She found his name had broken from her lips before she had given her say-so.

The Commander’s head shot up like a rabbit cornered. “I didn’t mean to disturb you, I’m sorry,” she blurted abashedly.

“It’s alright,” he replied, rising onto wobbly legs. He had to grapple onto the altar to maintain his footing.

“Are you well?” Gaerwyn inquired, taking note of his pale features beaded with perspiration.

“Y-yes,” Cullen stepped forward, only to have his knees promptly buckle beneath him. The Herald bolted to his side, placing two supporting hands against his shoulder. She was by no means strong enough to keep the Commander standing, but she did manage to gentle his descent to the floor. “Forgive me,” he murmured.

“There is no need to apologize. Have you been sleeping?”

A low chuckled was issued in an effort at humor. His features were inclined to the ground, giving little indication as to how he may have felt. “No, I haven’t.”

“I know how to mix a sleeping draught if you would like-“

“Thank you, but it will not help. The dreams are- never mind.”

Gaerwyn leaned forward on her elbows, feathering her gloved fingers against his jaw. He glanced up at her. Perhaps Cullen was taken aback by the tenderness in her gaze. Perhaps it was the intimacy of her touch.

“Nightmares?”

He nodded in muted reply. “Ah, we suffer from the same malady then?” the mage murmured.

“I doubt it is so simple.” The Commander forced a light sigh.

“When is it ever easy? Maker, I would kill for a glass of wine. Point me in the direction of some Orlesian bastards, they always have such prime vintages.” She released a theatrical sigh, more for Cullen’s benefit than her own.

A weak smile curved over his lips. Together, the Commander and the Herald made their way to the nearest supporting pillar, settling down into individual heaps of fatigue –while maintaining a respectful distance from the other as well. Even in private, propriety reigned omnipotent.

“What do you dream of?” he asked her.

“The Rite of Tranquility,” she replied softly. “The aftermath of the Conclave. When my night terrors are at their worst, sometimes I recall… well, it isn’t a very pleasant memory.”

“Gaerwyn, I’m so sorry.”

She shrugged. “What of you? What do you dream of?”

“I…”

“No, don’t answer that. It’s alright.”

The two remained silent, taking some comfort in the other’s presence. Gaerwyn tipped her head back to inhale the soft scent of melting candle wax and burning incense. She fiddled with the scarf wrapped haphazardly around her neck, eventually pressing it to her nose and taking in the deeply settled bouquet of perfume.

“The Ferelden Circle was overtaken by demons and abominations,” he murmured. “My comrades… my brothers in arms, they were murdered before my eyes. Never have I felt so weak and helpless. Those visions of what…”

“Stop,” Gaerwyn ordered gently. “Don’t do this to yourself.”

The Inquisition’s Commander turned to face her in relative surprise. “Just because I do not know when to shut my mouth,” she informed him, “And I prattle on about anything and everything, does not obligate you to do the same.”

“I like it when you talk,” he said, stumbling over his words some. The mage attributed this to exhaustion, and nothing more.

“You’ll be eating those words in all eventual likelihood. All the same, thank you.”

Gaerwyn made to climb to her feet, only to abruptly halt in the effort when Cullen placed a hand over her forearm. “Could you stay for a bit longer?” he asked. The mage slipped her legs out from beneath her in a show of agreement.

“Tell me about yourself, Ser Cullen.” She pulled looped her arms around her legs and leaned her cheek onto her knees.

“Well, I was born in Honnleath. This small village nestled in the southwest reaches of Ferelden. I can recall there being this old statue at the center, some sort of golem, I think…” Cullen continued on, halting at one point to bashfully scratch at the back of his neck. Gaerwyn listened attentively, not once providing any indication that her interests were better spent elsewhere.

\--

The following morning, when Leliana and Josephine emerged from their respective bedrooms, they encountered the Herald and the Commander curled up against one of the supporting columns bearing up the Chantry roof. Even when the invasive rays of sunlight leaked through the windows, neither stirred. It was an endearing sight. Cullen with one of his arms wrapped around the mage’s center, and her head nestled into the crook of his neck, with a hand tangled into his fur mantle. Legs were jumbled together in a mess of limbs, not that either seemed to mind. Cullen muttered something in his sleep and was answered by an equally unconscious mage in the thralls of her own dreams.

“Oh my.” Josephine giggled against the hand fanned over her lips. “Should we wake them?”

The Spymaster smiled softly. “No, not yet. Our dear Commander hasn’t had a full night’s sleep for quite some time. From what the servants have told me, the Herald also suffers from nightmares. Sleep for either of them is a boon.”

“I’ll keep the doors sealed for now. There aren’t any sermons today, so that shouldn’t be an issue.”

The two shared a knowing smile, and resumed their morning duties.

\--

Gaerwyn felt her bed shift beneath her. No, that is a very rude bed, she thought, latching onto her fur blankets and pulling the warmth closer.

“Ah, G-gaerwyn,” Cullen stuttered out her name, patting the top of her head awkwardly.

“My dear Commander, the only reason why you should be waking me from my rather delightful night’s rest would be if a rift opened in the dead center of camp.” She yawned. “Center. Not the edge, or fringe, or maybe by the adorable heard of mountain goats—are the mountain goats alright?” Her eyes shot open. “Maker, if anything happens to those innocent creatures… why am I in the Chantry?” it took her a moment to regain her bearing on last night’s situation.

“Did I seduce you last night in the heart of the—“ she began slowly.

“N-no,” His hair was mussed and curling against the influence of the agent he used to hold it in place. The situation was becoming more and more mortifying. He already knew he was in desperate need of a shave, having neglected to do so for a week now. Lest he forget his morning breath, he tilted his head to the side when speaking.

“I mean, it would have been consensual—“

“T-that’s not what I meant!” He groaned in exasperation. “It’s about an hour or so past dawn and I have to run the recruits through drills… and you want another half hour of sleep, don’t you?”

She nodded, rubbing her eyes with balled up fists. Her hair was mussed on one side of her head, from where she had been nestled into the curve of his neck and chest. Red welts imitating the texture of his fur mantle flared up on her cheek, indicating where she had slept the most soundly. “The business in the Hinterlands never seems to end.” She yawned. “Well… the detour to the Storm Coast should prove… different. And wet. And cold. And all around uncomfortable.”

Cullen tried to suppress his laughter. The chuckling manifested deep in his throat, bringing a pleased smile to Gaerwyn’s face. “Come here. Another half hour won’t hurt, I suppose.” She was quick to slide into his embrace one more, her body molding easily against the curvature of his figure. The scent of lilacs and lavender was fragrant in her hair.

Momentarily, the Commander discovered himself to be caught off guard by how trusting this mage was. Not once could he recall her ever using his status as a former Templar against him- a blessing in many ways. Certainly, there were some mages who had managed to befriend Templars whilst residing in the Circle, but it was a rarity. Wait, he thought, does the opinion of this one woman truly matter so much to me?

He wasn’t surprised when he realized the answer was a resounding affirmative.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the chapter I was referring to earlier this week. I wrote the previous chapter because this one introduced Gaerwyn's sense of guilt over losing Samahl, but it seemed way to abrupt for my liking. I am happy that I was able to moderate the pacing of the story some, and this chapter doesn't seem so misplaced anymore. Mostly because I didn't want Samahl to simply become a distant figure that Gaerwyn mourns, but because Gaerwyn more or less lost her sister during the Conclave. I just see that as being a kind of mourning that doesn't go away, at least entirely, and the kind of anguish that can't entirely be processed. Gaerwyn not being able to process in a healthy way begins to blame herself. Sorry, obnoxious explanation is obnoxious.
> 
> I would like to know if the italicization at the beginning is obnoxious. I usually write flashbacks and dreams in italics, but I will cease to use them if they are obnoxious or agonizing to read. I know I struggle with huge blocks of italics when reading in print, but that's typically in print alone and my personal preference. Don't feel obligated either. I just appreciate the technical feedback on how I can better improve a reading experience (Did that sound passive aggressive? I seriously hope not, that wasn't what I was going for! My bad!)
> 
> Anyways, thank you again for reading!


	8. A Bouquet for the Commander

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaerwyn is still self-conscious about the Mark of the Tranquil on her forehead. Prior to leaving for the Storm Coast, she is confronted with this same sense of unease.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!

“My dear, what happened to your hair?” Vivienne inquired as she caught sight of the Herald leaving the War Council.

“I woke up like this,” she replied with a loud yawn.

“Come now, sit here.” Vivienne pulled a chair up for the mage to sit upon.

“Why?” Gaerwyn asked with some skepticism.

“Why do you think?” The Grand Enchanter pushed Gaerwyn into the chair and proceeded to run a brush through the tangles. “Honestly, going out in public like this? Where is your sense of decorum?”

“In bed waiting for me.” Vivienne tugged roughly on a gnarl in the mage’s thick auburn hair. “Senior Enchanter Elliann wrote me about how much of a toil your hair was. Yet, she also mentioned how much she loved taking the time out of her day to sit and take care of this small task. She was a lovely woman…”

“She was,” Gaerwyn agreed. “I miss her. I just wish there was something I could have done.”

“My dear, do you honestly believe you had fault in what happened? How old were you?”

“Fourteen.”

“So young. Is there something you need, Commander?” Vivienne glanced over at Cullen. He had evidently been watching for a time.

“N-no, I just overheard-“

“Well, don’t, my dear. It is rude to pry into another’s business. I should think that was obvious.”

“Forgive me.” He attempted to amend the situation weakly. The Commander briskly crossed the expanse of the Chantry’s sanctuary and exited through the large doors. No doubt to see to the recruits.

“He seems quite taken with you, my dear,” Vivienne mused, easing a knot apart with her deft fingers.

“Cullen? No… he is a friend. I doubt that anyone can see beyond this brand,” Gaerwyn responded.

“You were made Tranquil solely out of punishment, no doubt, but do you honestly think that the Inner Circle of this effort only sees that mark?”

“Sera went on such a tirade when she saw it. Going on about how it was ‘Freaky mage shite.’ Bull thinks it is similar to how the Saarebas are handled by his people. And-“

“Enough of that now.” Vivienne set aside her silver hair brush. She parted the Herald’s hair and began to weave an intricate pattern into the mass of thick locks. “Honestly, your hair is just so unruly. Now I will tell you this only once: everyone here has managed to look beyond that little mark. Will you trust me on this?”

“Of course, Lady Vivienne. Thank you.”

“Oh, I am not done with you just yet. When all this chaos tides over, I want to introduce you to my tailor. You will need a wardrobe to match your position. Image is everything. We can’t have the Herald running about in rags, now can we?”

Gaerwyn whirled around, face alight with the prospect of wearing something other than the standard issue mage robes. “Would you do that? I don’t know what to say.”

“Hold still,” Vivienne ordered, suppressing her mirth with a stern scolding. “Elliann was right. You can’t stop squirming!”

\--

“Ah, Herald, you did something with your hair?” Cullen stuttered.

“Vivienne got a hold of me,” Gaerwyn said. “I only wish she had sooner.” The First Enchanter had pulled Gaerwyn’s hair into a bun, only to realize that her hair would continue to disagreeably sprout in whichever direction it pleased. Vivienne had ended up allowing it to fall in a tightly controlled cascade of curls down Gaerwyn’s neck. One battle she refused to cede was if the sunburst on Gaerwyn’s forehead would be visible or not, and the woman insisted that it would be.

The Commander and Herald had chosen to take a stroll through the army encampment later in the evening, while the recruits were resting and having their evening meal. It was becoming something of a common practice. Cullen would meet Gaerwyn near the entrance to Haven, and the two would wander about whilst discussing the Inquisition, books, or whatever happened to strike their fancy at the time. There was always the bungling chance that one of their hands would brush against their companion’s when rounding a corner or in an animated stint, when one spoke out passionately on a topic- usually ending in a prompt apology.

“It looks nice- your hair,” he continued shyly. “Herald, I wanted to thank you for that evening in the Chantry-“

“There is no need,” Gaerwyn replied, patting him on the arm.

“But there is,” he insisted. “You didn’t have to remain with me for those hours after. Listening to me go on about such nonsense as-“ He was cut off by the mage breaking into a round of laughter.

“Maker’s breath! There is no need to worry. I was happy to listen.”

“Yet you have troubles of your own. I would only be happy to return the favor, if you chose to speak of what concerns you.”

“Cullen, it wasn’t a favor. I do not expect anything from you when we visit, save for a friend to speak with. You owe me nothing,” Gaerwyn said. They passed a small cluster of soldiers, some of whom cast a fearful glance towards her forehead. Her mouth twisted into a sharp grimace. 

“How can they say she’s the Herald? Can she still even use magic? I heard that she has to be protected upon approaching a rift. I bet Lady Cassandra’s injury was a result of—“

“Blast it, this bloody hairstyle is so infuriating!”

“What’s wrong with it?” Cullen asked laughingly.

“I hate having this brand showing! Need I remind everyone that I was once Tranquil? The last time I visited Val Royeaux, I had one merchant ask if I was lost and he tried to direct me to some Grand Cleric for assistance. The bastard wouldn’t listen to reason, and didn’t seem to recognize that if a mage starts yelling profanities at him, then most likely, they aren’t a Tranquil,” she vented, attempting to tug her hair free of its constraints.

“Stop.” Cullen touched her wrist and slowly eased it back to her side. “The people who matter could care less if you decide to bare or hide that brand.” He placed his hand against the side of her face with a strange amount of tenderness. The gesture seemed oddly out of character for the gruff commander. Granted, no one was in the general vicinity save for them, so there was little risk of fuel for a rumor.

“Are you one of those people, Cullen?” Gaerwyn asked quietly.

“You tell me. I cannot decide who matters to you and who does not.”

“Well then,” she murmured. The mage placed her hand over Cullen’s gloved fingers. “I think you know the answer to that.”

“I certainly hope so.”

“We would not be standing like this if my answer was anything else, Commander.”

She heard Cullen’s breath catch in his throat. As his mouth moved to form words, the seclusion of the environment was sundered.

“Commander!” Jim, one of Leliana’s scouts, approached with sealed documents in hand. “Lady Josephine sent a copy of her report.”

“Excellent,” Cullen replied through clenched teeth. “That will be all.”

“Ser!” Jim thrust his fist against his chest and departed.

Cullen’s trained glare was broken when he heard Gaerwyn break into a fit of giggles. He turned to see her pressing a hand to her mouth in hopes of muffling her laughter. Her eyes were beaded with tears as she tried to catch her breath.

“Well, I promised Varric and Bull that I would join them for drinks later,” Gaerwyn managed to say between two bouts of hysterical laughter.

“I should let you…”

“Come join us,” she interjected. “Neither of them would object... nor would I. We leave for the Storm Coast tomorrow, and I can’t say how long we’ll be away. Come have a drink with us before we must depart.”

“Perhaps another time. By your leave, Herald.” Cullen bowed his head, as was per the formality.

“Very well, Commander.” Gaerwyn sighed. She returned the obligatory gesture with a pronounced irritability in her salute.

\--

Once she had departed, Cullen found himself cursing internally. One drink, just one, he snarled at himself. Maker, I’m hopeless, he thought.

\--

The Storm Coast was hardly hospitable. What with the constant raining and muddy paths, it was almost uncharacteristic that Gaerwyn had agreed to stay long enough to meet with the Chargers prior to this journey. She had agreed to return to speak with the Blades of Hessarian- no small feat. There had also been the pressing need to search for resources. The Inquisition couldn’t run solely on the favors of noble houses, after all. Especially when so many were still hesitant to pledge full allegiance to the cause.

After having set up camp for the night, Gaerwyn had taken to walking the shoreline alone. The sea air was thick with the smell of brine and cold. Large patches of seaweed had been thrown up on the shore like clumps of hair. When happening upon a sprig of spindleweed, the mage would crouch and free the roots from the ground.

“Were you planning on going so far?” Cassandra inquired from behind the woman.

“How far am I… oh. I didn’t realize.” Gaerwyn laughed weakly. The camp was a pinprick in the distance. “What is this?” She trudged down the incline of the beach, to where the cold waters had settled against a basaltic formation.

“A black lotus? Have you never seen one before?”

“In a book, I suppose,” she replied. “How lovely.” Gaerwyn brushed a hand over the glossy petals. “Would it be possible to send a bouquet back to Haven?”

“That would be quite the waste of resources. That would be one bird we don’t have for at least six days,” Cassandra scoffed. “Why… what are you thinking?”

“Nothing in particular. Just curious.”

\--

Cassandra had a talent for pretending. Feigning obliviousness came with ease, especially after having been trained to perceive falsehood. She played at being unaware when she saw the Herald preparing a bouquet of dawn lotuses, black lotuses, and a small array of Crystal Grace. She made an effort to ignore the frayed tear that appeared in Gaerwyn’s journal, where a page was ripped free.

She assumed an appearance of slumber when Gaerwyn departed from the tent the two had agreed to share; her eyes fluttered slightly when she heard the rusty grating of a bird cage eased ajar, biting her lip when the smattering of profanities that followed reached her. The leathery flapping of wings taking flight was also ignored.

The tent flap was lifted away, admitting the soggy chill of the coast. Gaerwyn slipped inside and returned to her sleeping arrangement. She pulled four fur blankets over her body, shivering slightly when a stray wind eased itself beneath the tent walls.

“Cassandra?” Gaerwyn spoke in the darkness.

“Yes, Herald?”

“You’re terrible at lying.”

The Seeker found a blessing in the night’s dark cloak. Her face broke into a gentle smile. “You’re even worse at subtlety.”

Warm, bubbling laughter filled the air. “I am. Thank you…”

“For what?”

“Allowing a small waste of resources.”

“I can assure you that you’ll be making up for the loss tomorrow. I expect the situation with the Blades of Hessarian to be handled in a timely fashion.” She had to hide her romantic inclinations. There was little enigma as to whom the flowers were being sent to.

While the remainder of the camp may have an inkling of an idea, the Seeker was fully aware of the Commander and the Herald’s relationship. Albeit simply being friendship, there was potential for so much more. She had seen Gaerwyn sneak letters into a pile of reports that would find way into Cullen’s hands, and he would do the same in response. How their eyes would brighten when reading the words of the other. The mere sight of the Herald was enough for the Commander to blush a feverish red. Whereas the mage was simply happy to be in his company. There was a simple beauty in how they asked nothing of the other, save for a listening ear and a supportive shoulder.

The Seeker had witnessed the languid walks taken through the camp, their words charged with energy and passion and laughter. How the jests shared between them were enough to lighten their shouldered burdens. Yet neither would acknowledge the joy the two found with each other. It was enough to drive Cassandra mad. She had come to the point in her observations where if their feelings were not proclaimed, Maker preserve her, she’d make Varric write the ending she desired.

\--

“Commander, a letter and parcel of resources from the Storm Coast were delivered to your quarters earlier today,” a scout stated, inhaling sharply after suffering through the wordy statement.

“Why wouldn’t you send it all to storage?” Cullen inquired, lifting one eyebrow. A headache was thrumming against his temples.

“Seeker Pentaghast sent specific instructions that it was to be delivered directly to your quarters. Odd… she sent the letter with a bird a few hours after the first one. Sister Leliana said it was unlike her to skim over such a small detail.”

Cullen exhaled through his nose, trying to fight the impulse to roll his eyes. “Very well. I will inspect the requisitions later. Dismissed.”

The scout pressed a hand to his chest and then departed. Strange, Cullen mused.

\--

The Commander returned to his chambers later in the evening, just as the sun sank into the Frostback’s embrace. He lit a candle, and proceeded to remove his armor in its dusky glow. It wasn’t until he had managed to wrestle out of his sweat-soaked tunic that the gentle aroma of flowers reached his nose. Lifting the candle to illuminate the room, he discovered a small bouquet soaking in a vase on his bedside table.

He approached, cautiously, to discover that it consisted largely of black lotus. There was a small amount of dawn lotus interspersed in the arrangement, not enough to provoke a cloying scent, but plenty to let off a sweet aroma. The flower itself looked like the morning sun, fully living up to its name by its appearance. As his hand brushed against the head of a glossy lotus, a soft tinkling was emitted from the cluster. Cullen promptly located the bells of Crystal Grace that complimented the overall aesthetic.

He located the sealed letter set off to the side of the vase, his name written in a familiar scrawl. With an eagerness he would never openly acknowledge, Cullen broke the seal and was welcomed by the warm smell of elfroot balm. The side of the letter was frayed, as if the page had been sundered from a journal.

_My dear Commander:_

_What can I say to describe the utter majesty of the Storm Coast? The shore is perpetually coated in a fine layer of slime, the locals are hardly welcoming, and lest I forget, it is always raining. Maker’s breath, I would trade this constant damp for snow!_

_My colleagues and I had discussed travelling over the Waking Sea to reach the Conclave –I can say I’m overjoyed that we decided otherwise. All the same, there is a strange beauty in the way the water moves. I think I’ve spent a generous amount of time simply watching the waves. It’s utterly mesmerizing how the water can be lifted up into swells as large as hills, and then fall away to nothing just as promptly. It’s like watching sand dunes transformed by the wind. I don’t think I have ever found such elegance in something so deadly. I realize you must have seen this sight already, so please forgive my written babble._

_I felt the bouquet was in order. I don’t believe anyone can convince me otherwise. You deserve flowers. Don’t go telling me your masculinity suddenly nullifies this statement either!_

_I hope all is well, and that your bad dreams are not quite so persistent. I read a passage in an old herbologist’s manual that said Crystal Grace can wake one from nightmares with its chiming, and that dawn lotus can induce sweet dreams –if presented in a proportionate arrangement. I suppose this is my way of wishing you pleasant dreams from a distance._

_Sleep well, Commander._

_-Gaerwyn Trevelyan_

The smile stretched over his face was enough to indicate just how significant this gift was. He folded the letter with tender care and stored it away in a small box of seemingly random objects. There were a few messages from his siblings, a silver coin bearing Andraste’s face, and miscellaneous leaves he had dried and kept with him over the years. Trash to some, but treasure of unimaginable worth to Cullen.

Before turning in for the night, Cullen sat down at his desk and proceeded to pen out a letter. There was little question as to whom it was for.

\--

“Herald, you received a letter,” Cassandra informed the mage, outstretching her hand.

“Ah, more reports?” Gaerwyn inquired. She fidgeted with the pendant around her neck, Mercy’s Crest, as it was referred to.

“No. Not yet, at least,” the Seeker replied.

Gaerwyn’s cheeks came alight with a warm pink blush. She easily pegged the handwriting, and was struck by how suddenly self-conscious reading the letter before her companions made her.

“I’ll be back momentarily,” she said.

“Everything alright, Sparkles?” Varric asked.

“I certainly hope so,” she responded hurriedly. Gaerwyn made the short trek to a felled tree, settling down against its girth to read. She broke the seal and proceeded to scan the contents.

_My Dear Herald:_

_I must thank you for the gift. I will not lie: it was unexpected, and I was uncertain as to if it would even work. All the same, I appreciate that I was in your thoughts._

_You need not worry about rambling on paper. I hardly found your description verbose. One can only learn so much from the Circle library, after all. While I have seen the Waking Sea on a few previous occasions, the Storm Coast differs from what I have observed. If not for my own dislike of the cold, I would be more than happy to travel there at a later time._

_I wrote this portion the morning after receiving your gift, and I must say that the flowers did work to some effect. The dawn lotus produced a sweet scent while I slept, and the Crystal Grace worked to lull me to rest, oddly enough. ~~The nightmares were there, but so were you. Is that strange?~~ Maker, I should just dash out half of what I write._

_What I mean was that I felt as if ~~you were there while I slept-~~ ~~Sod.~~ It was as if you were playing your lute at my bedside-  
It’s hard to describe without sounding like an utter idiot. I was in the clutches of a nightmare, and all of a sudden I felt as if I heard you playing your lute. No doubt it was a dream, but it was a comfort._

_Thank you, Gaerwyn. I eagerly await your return. The evenings are not the same when I cannot walk with you._

_-Cullen Stanton Rutherford_

_P.S. I wasn’t lying when I said your hair looked nice the way Lady Vivienne had arranged it. You looked lovely. Not to say that you don’t everyday, or that… I believe I will cease my written babbling now. Take care, Gaerwyn._

\--

“Herald, shall we depart for the Blade’s camp?” Cassandra inquired.

Gaerwyn jumped, pressing the letter protectively to her chest. A blush was painted over her cheeks, and her breathing was rapid and disjointed.

“Y-yes, let’s not delay any longer,” she said, folding the letter with care. She tucked it into the confines of her journal. “Shall we then?”

Cassandra bit back her smile. “Yes.”

\--

The Seeker could not deny the overpowering sense of victory. She didn’t have to read the letter to recognize how pleased Gaerwyn was. All she had to do was observe the new found spring in the mage’s step, or her quickened laugh.

Perhaps she wouldn’t have to hound Varric for a novel after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like Cassandra would be a fantastic wing-woman. Along with Dorian and Varric, the trio would be seriously unstoppable. One of my obnoxious little headcanons involves Cassandra having known from the beginning that there was something between the Herald and Cullen (if the two do become romantically involved). I mean, Cassandra is a Seeker, so she can obviously tell when people are hiding things, and I don't see Cullen at being particularly gifted at hiding his affections for a person. Of course, neither can the Inquisitor in question (Again, my own personal headcanon). I can see her being a hopeless romantic who sees the two as being a couple out of one of her smutty romance novels (minus the smut, maybe), and desperately trying to influence the course of events so the relationship can blossom into something more. She is the ultimate fangirl at certain points in the game, I feel. Her dialogue with Varric while travelling is a pretty fantastic indicator... and I relate to much of it on a spiritual level. She said something to the effect of getting so upset with a book that she threw it across the room once, for example.
> 
> On another note: I did make up the herbology manual passage. I did refer to the codex for what the different plants were for. I thought about using blood lotus, but I couldn't really get around the fact that it is a resource mostly used in grenades, and has a tendency to induce hallucinations.
> 
> This chapter is a bit disjointed, but I felt like the Storm Coast passage would fit well here. I was just like, "This is the perfect place! I am doing it! Why not! I am suddenly having all the self-doubt!" If it doesn't fit, I will in all likelihood split the chapter in two at a later point.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	9. The Tranquil and the Ocularum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaerwyn has dealt with the prejudices associated with being a Tranquil. It has become a daily occurrence where she deflects or must ignore another passing comment.
> 
> During her travels through the Hinterlands, Gaerwyn discovers an Ocularum and shortly after learns what method the object is created through. Or, to be more specific, what type of skull is used to create the Ocularum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My excuse for posting twice in one week is that this is my Spring Break. I am a weak person.
> 
> Thank you for reading!

“Those folk keep staring at you,” Blackwall said to Gaerwyn. “It’s a bit disconcerting.”

“That it is,” she agreed, picking at her stew. Maker, was there even meat in this? She could have sworn she found a turkey bone in a previous bowl. For soup stock, Cullen had explained. Odd Fereldan habits, the mage had snarked as reply.

Varric approached the table, placing three new tankards onto the scuffed surface. “What’d you hear?” Blackwall asked.

“The usual. The Herald can’t be the Herald, she’s a Tranquil. How can a freakish thing-“

Gaerwyn made a whip-like motion with her hand, freezing the warm hearth fire. The amber flames were encased in chilling ice, crackling when its heat was replaced with a sharp cool. The tavern fell into an eerie quiet. Even when all faces were staring at her in pure incredulity, the mage was hardly bothered. She lifted a spoonful of stew to her mouth, delicately blowing at the broth.

“Well, they won’t be doubting you can use magic now,” Varric grumbled. “Does it really bother you what they say?”

The mage shrugged. “It gets annoying. I could hardly care what they think, but it feels like I’m back in the Circle again. Where I am constantly being told that I am a threat, or a monstrosity, or whatever else seemed to strike the Chantry’s fancy at the time. I recognize that magic is dangerous, but teaching mages to fear their own abilities doesn’t accomplish anything.”

“I think you’re preaching to a pretty full choir, Sparkles,” Varric said with a sigh. “I knew a mage who thought the same thing. Course he decided to follow up with some pretty drastic measures…”

“Maker, look at her,” a voice hissed from across the tavern.

“She must be a fraud.”

“Or an abomination—“

“Shh! Not so loudly!”

“She looked at me! Oh, sod! I’m ruined now.”

“I hear that a demon can possess a Tranquil more easily—“

“Spirits of the Fade ignore the Tranquil,” she spoke clearly. Clearly enough that the woman currently speaking swerved about and looked at her in abject terror. “Those who can’t access the Fade, such as a Tranquil, really are not all that interesting at all to them,” Gaerwyn proceeded. “Because Tranquil lack any emotion as well, a demon would have no interest in possessing one. Think about what the Chantry names demons. Despair, Pride, Desire, Rage, and so on. Those require an emotional core. So if I’m possessed, then I suppose I’ve proven you all wrong as to my being a Tranquil.”

“Come on.” Varric folded a hand around her forearm. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Thank the Maker that we’re leaving for the Hinterlands tomorrow,” Gaerwyn growled, slinging her staff over her shoulder. “I’m already sick of being back.”

The three exited the tavern into the cold night. With their departure, the tavern seemed to liven up a bit more. The minstrel proceeded to pluck at her instrument, playing a jovial tune to mask the initial discomfort. “Are they always like that?” Blackwall asked. “Not in Haven, but well, everywhere else?”

“More or less.” Gaerwyn sighed. “The Tranquil can leave their Circles if they choose to do so. No magic, means no threat. No emotions, no chance of possession. It is rare though. We- they aren’t really accepted anywhere. So why would they leave the tower?”

The Grey Warden fell silent, his expression hidden by his beard. The way his eyebrows drew together did give some indication as to how he felt. Perhaps upset. Despite how grizzled he may appear, Blackwall was an oddly compassionate individual. He placed a comforting hand on Gaerwyn’s shoulder, trying to express his sympathy to the best of his abilities.

“It’s alright,” she murmured. “While unfortunate, I am accustomed to the different treatment. Tranquil aren’t very well-liked among mages either. We- they,” she corrected herself with a sigh, “They’re a reminder of what they could become.”

“Seems like an all around shitty situation,” Varric said. He slung Bianca over his shoulder, the crossbow glinting in the moonlight. Stepping out to face Gaerwyn, his features appeared gentled by the revelation. “Ya know, if anything like that happens again, you can tell us. I’m sure Sera would be more than willing to stuff bees into some assholes unmentionables.”

The mage tipped her head back and laughed. Contrary to how she may have brushed off the offer, she was more than grateful. “Well, now that I have effectively ruined the pleasant mood, I will bid you both a good evening,” Gaerwyn bowed slightly and then turned on her heel. She had descended the stairway leading to her personal quarters only moments later.

“Herald,” Blackwall called after her. Her head reappeared around the corner. “You’re a better woman than they make you out to be. Tranquil or not, you are more than what they think.”

He could make out the two slight pinpricks of her eyes in the darkness, the bright green orbs seeming to glow. “Thank you.” With that, she disappeared from sight.

\--

“Varric,” Blackwall began, as the two made the solitary journey to their respective quarters.

“Yeah?”

“The Herald isn’t telling the whole story, is she?”

“Now why would she do that?” Varric asked, his sarcasm evident.

\--

The Hinterlands had all but been claimed by the Inquisition. It was a secure foothold for the small cause to begin growing. The warring between mages and Templars had ceased for the time being, and an unsteady peace saturated the valleys. Refugees were receiving aid, and Redcliffe had grudgingly reopened its village gates.

There were still a few loose ends to deal with, and Gaerwyn worked ceaselessly to do so. Establishing camps, closing rifts, and gathering resources. If it took her away from the general population, the mage did not hesitate to take up any task. She was just as adverse to the idea of speaking with individuals as they were with her. When forced to do so, she messily raked her hair across her forehead.

The morning after arriving in a heavily forested area, the mage had opted to scale an incline to get a vague idea of the area. Soft humming, like a wet hand on the rim of a glass, caught her attention. Promptly changing her course, Gaerwyn paused on a small outcropping. An odd object of some archaic quality. She shouted down to the camp where her companions were currently awaiting her return.

Solas detached from the site and made the short hike to where the human stood. He didn’t have long to gain his bearings before being directed to the object in question.

“Solas… what is this?” Gaerwyn gestured to the skull mounted on a staff. It overlooked the valley below, as if standing sentry to a cache of secrets.

“I… are you certain you wish to know?” he asked, for once seeming reserved in answering her questions about arcane artifacts. “I’ve seen such an object on a few occasions in the Fade. The memories tied to it are often painful… laced with agony and confusion.”

“How bad can it be?” she asked laughingly. “Come now. I promise your air of mystery will not dissolve if you tell me.”

Solas looked at the young woman, with eyes that contained the sadness of many ages. He had seen so much. Brutality, love, sacrifice, and so much more. Although he cared little for the affairs of humans, he had interfered to right the Breach for one reason or another. This woman carried the key to that salvation. Could he be so heartless to tell her what this skull really was? Who it had belonged to? When she stood there, smiling vibrantly, with her hair wind tossed and her cheeks reddened from the sunlight? How would she react, he wondered.

“Alright,” he said with a soft sigh. “That is an Ocularum…”

As he spoke, he watched the light drain from her eyes. Her smile fell away into an expression of abject horror. Solas could only conclude his statement by saying the Ocularum looked as if it were recently crafted. He reached out a hand in hopes of comforting the Herald, but found that the gesture was ineffectual. Her legs buckled beneath her, and the elf had to grasp her by the straps of her gear to ensure she didn’t take a deadly tumble to the ground below.

\--

“Commander.” Jim approached Cullen cautiously. He had come to the sudden realization that the Commander of the Inquisition forces seemed to regularly be frustrated by the young man’s presence.

“What is it?” Cullen inquired, glancing up from a report.

“The Herald and her travelling party have returned. She requested that I bring you this.” Jim proffered a report ten pages thick –writing on both sides.

“Did the Herald look well?” the Commander asked, rallying his best efforts to maintain an indifferent visage. He leafed through the packet of papers almost carelessly, finding her writing and phrasing near enamoring. How her letters would join together in a messy cursive, or how there was a vague flourish to her words. It only took a few pages for his efforts to be all but dismantled, and he paused to read over a page.

“No, Ser. She did not.”

Cullen’s head jolted up and his façade shattered. “Is she hurt?”

“A few bruises and a sprain –nothing that can’t be healed,” Jim replied, remaining very conscientious of how Cullen’s glare seemed to bear down upon him. “She was more so disturbed by something she discovered in the Hinterlands. Went directly to Lady Vivienne’s quarters.”

“I see. That will be all, Jim.”

“Ser.”

Cullen ordered his lieutenant to continue drilling the recruits, stating he had just been met with a bout of nausea and perhaps a headache. The Templar nodded in understanding and took up where the Commander left off.

To maintain a sensible appearance and avoid breaching any rules of propriety, Cullen was forced to monitor his gait and pacing. He could not give off the impression that he was rushing off in some random which way. No doubt a rumor would catch fire in the encampment. Where is the Commander off to? Is there a blood mage amongst our ranks? Are we being attacked?

Cullen entered the Chantry, hardly expecting to be ambushed by the spymaster upon stepping over the threshold. Leliana approached him with calculated step. Her bard’s training enforced in every gesture she made. “Commander, have you had a moment to read the Herald’s report?”

“No, I just received it,” he said, holding the parcel up as evidence.

“I would encourage you to do so. There have been some rather disturbing developments.”

“Of what nature?”

“Of the kind concerning mages. Page three, fifth paragraph down.”

Cullen did as he was directed, and was confronted with the font of a shaking hand forcing a quill to parchment.

_Travelling through the Hinterlands, we came across a skull mounted upon a staff. The left eye cavity was filled by a foggy crystal and the back of the skull was cracked open._

_According to the Solas, and my own personal studies post the encounter, we were able to discern that this artifact was an Ocularum. These objects are created via killing a Tranquil and promptly doctoring the skull as to act as a spyglass. The practice of doing so had long been deemed barbaric with only a few being associated with the practice in this age. Of those few groups, the Venatori are the most prominent. While unsettling, these objects have a tendency to crop up where the presence of Tevinter used to be strong. It appears that the Ocularum was used as a means of acquiring shards of unknown purpose in the immediate area. After having established this, I retrieved the skull so that it may not be used again for such a purpose._

_While this encounter was disconcerting, our exploration of Redcliffe proved to match this tenfold. A local had informed us of some individuals of questionable repute had taken residence in an abandoned shack near the outskirts of the village. We approached and entered the property to find at least fifty Oculara stored there. There were used tools near at hand, all of which were rusted with blood. The skulls gave easy indication that the Tranquil’s deaths were disturbingly recent. A chest of cast off items, carried by the Tranquils no doubt, provided insight as to who and where they hailed from. Five found rings bore the insignia of the Ostwick Circle. I have handed the contents of the chest over to Scout Harding, who in extension, will send the items to Spymaster Leliana._

_I apologize for the inconsistency my hand appears to have adopted in writing this. I would like to request an investigation into the Oculara, as well as the disappearances of Tranquils. As the Templar and Mage forces have been warring within the Hinterlands, it is of no surprise that Tranquils would be caught in the crossfire. Even in my own Circle, when the rebellion took place Tranquils began to turn up missing. To discover what may have happened, and what fate may await more… (a line of the report was crossed out)._

“By the Maker,” Cullen exhaled. He did not even realize he had held his breath whilst reading the report. “Is she alright?”

“No. Understandably so,” Leliana replied. “She is speaking with First Enchanter Vivienne at the moment, and I do not think it wise to disturb them.”

“Would the Inquisition be able to investigate this matter?”

“We can locate the pockets of Venatori and… dispose of them, but I do not know if we can do so in a timely fashion. No doubt it will take weeks of combing through the Hinterlands. Even then, there is no guarantee that there will be any Tranquil left to save.”

“I see…”

The Commander could only barely comprehend how Gaerwyn must have been reacting to this discovery. After Leliana took her leave, Cullen opted to approach the door to the First Enchanter’s quarters and pray that even some muted dialogue would manage to ease free of the chamber’s confines.

He heard sobbing. Pained, chest wrenching sobs seeped out of the room. Instantly, Cullen’s chest swelled with guilt. He had encroached upon the Herald’s need for privacy when she was at her weakest. With a concerted effort, the Commander removed himself from the Chantry and returned to overseeing the training of Inquisition soldiers.

\--

Cullen had intended on retiring to his quarters when he reentered the Chantry later that evening. He had not expected to see the Herald curled into a prostrate position before the altar… praying. She was visibly shaken. By her feet sat the Tranquil skull, staring up at her as if in blank accusation.

“Gaerwyn,” he whispered. He attempted to approach the mage with a soft, padded step, but to no avail. His armored boots rendered all efforts ineffective.

The mage slowly rose to her feet, stooping down to cradle the skull in her hands.

“Do you require something of me, Commander?” she asked. Her features remained neutral, but her eyes were bright with tears.

“N-no… Maker, are you alright?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“Is that…”

Gaerwyn held it out for the Commander to see. It was grotesque. The back of the skull had been shattered by some blunt instrument, while the front still bore signs of brutality. Blood was caked onto its front teeth, making its visage all the more grotesque. “I don’t know why I’ve held onto this,” she said weakly. “I just don’t want them to be forgotten. We- they, are so easily brushed to the wayside.”

“If we put it in the war room, it could serve as a reminder,” Cullen suggested, already recalling how Leliana had sanitized her approach to the Tranquils’ plight.

“I suppose that could work…” Her shoulders began to quake violently with the force of her choked back weeping. She snapped her eyes closed, bowing her head to avoid eye contact. “How can such a savage practice be resurrected? What if I had been amongst them?” She gasped. “What if I were still Tranquil? Maker, I could have-“

Without a second thought spared, Cullen enveloped the mage in an embrace. He cradled her head to his chest, finding that Gaerwyn grappled onto him as if for fear of falling into some precipice threatening to open at her feet. Her sobs heaved through her entire body with relentless force. She tangled her fingers into his mantle, pressing her face into his shoulder. “Forgive me,” she managed to choke out the words. “I just can’t fathom this. I can’t.” Cullen found his hold on the woman tightened, as if he feared she may turn to smoke in his arms. He steadied her against him until the Herald willed herself to stand on her own.

“I… will put this on the war table, if that is acceptable,” Gaerwyn whispered, somewhat uncertainly. Cullen watched her approach the heavy door and shove it open. She remained within the room’s confines for a stretched stint of minutes. After five had passed, the Commander warily came to the open portal. He made out the vague outline of Gaerwyn’s body hunched over the divided map of Orlais and Ferelden.

“We can’t save everyone, Gaerwyn,” he murmured. “We can try, certainly, but no war campaign is ever without consequence.”

She sniffled, wiping a hand over her eyes. “I know. I just… I’ve lost Samahl and Tristan, and now I learn that Tranquil from my own Circle were murdered. It feels like the world is falling apart around my ears. Well, technically I suppose it is…”

“I understand,” Cullen said, reaching for her hand. “Come. May I walk you to your quarters?”

“Thank you. That would be lovely.”

The snow outside was dappled in moonlight, glowing like quicksilver. Gaerwyn’s own small fingers were dwarfed by the size of Cullen’s hand. She held tightly to his gloved fingers, seeking comfort in the familiarity. Not that the mage shared any inclination to release his hand. Keeping her gaze forward, she bit down on her lower lip to refrain from sobbing.

“Gaerwyn, if you need someone to speak to, I am here,” Cullen said.

“You bear so much of a burden as it is, my dear Commander,” she said. “Are you not afraid of breaking?”

You make me stronger, he thought. You make it possible to think of things beyond this blighted war. Gaerwyn pulled on the door leading into her cramped quarters. It was jammed in the threshold. “You m-make me feel as if I am incapable of wavering, I mean- that is to say, I feel-” Cullen floundered with such perseverance in his efforts. Gaerwyn found the display rather endearing. As the door freed itself, the Commander found he was more desperate to hold onto this moment. To be with her out in the brittle chill of the evening, the moonlight catching onto the facets of her irises and setting them ablaze.

“Thank you,” she said, smiling wanly. “When all this has settled down, I would like to play my lute for you.” There was little doubt that once the mage closed the door on him, her tears would run anew. Could he really do nothing? Cullen cursed himself. How could he be so helpless? Weren’t those years behind him?

“If there’s anything I can do. Anything at all—“ he began again. Maker, why have you abandoned this woman now?

“When I awoke… when the Rite was reversed,” she murmured. “I was terrified, and irrational and so angry. I couldn’t control my abilities and… I can remember how I would go from rage to this all-consuming anguish. You almost begin to envy those who were allowed to remain Tranquil. I… thank you for everything, Commander. You are too kind.” She placed a gloved hand on Cullen’s forearm, patting it kindly.

He could have kissed her then… but he hesitated. Propriety, professionalism, the war effort, the friendship potentially fracturing, and not to mention her being a mage and he a templar. How could she not associate him with the Order, even after his premature resignation? With that in mind, Cullen bid her a good night. She closed the door, bolting it from the inside.

\--

Cullen made the trek up to the Chantry once more to find Lady Vivienne standing outside the church’s large doors. She blocked the entrance with her slim frame, the very authority she commanded seemed to fill in the gaps.

“Lady Vivienne.” He inclined his head, as per the formality demanded.

“Commander Cullen,” she acknowledged, crossing her arms primly over her chest. “I believe we have much to discuss.”

“What do you mean?”

“Let me put this simply: are you or are you not smitten with the Herald?”

“W-what? T-that is… I don’t-“

“Lady Gaerwyn is a rather curious individual, I must admit. I would not attempt to dissuade any attachment you may have found connecting the two of you, but I am curious.” Vivienne smiled in a knowing way. She was playing the Game, and knew there was little chance of Cullen managing victory. Now that he had revealed his hand. “You suffer, my dear. When did you stop taking lyrium, and to what end?”

“I… how do you-“

“I have befriended many a Templar, my dear, and those who suffer from the effects of withdrawal are easy to spot. Especially amongst their brethren, who continue to take lyrium.” Vivienne smirked, a dainty quirk to her lips.

Cullen turned his gaze down to his gloved hands. He sighed softly. “I stopped taking lyrium after Cassandra enlisted me for the Inquisition. I… wanted to ensure that I was giving my best to this cause and nothing less. If refusing lyrium became necessity, then so be it.”

“Hrm,” the first enchanter hummed, “Do you honestly find your decision wise? You intentionally weaken yourself. Not that my opinion should matter in cases of your personal affairs, but your timing simply seems… inopportune.”

The Commander shrugged his shoulders. By no means would any member of the Inquisition, be that the Inner Circle or the most common foot soldier, wish to have First Enchanter Vivienne stand as their interrogator.

“Now, returning to my original question,” she proceeded. “What are the implications you have defined for the relationship with the Herald?”

“I have none,” he answered. “An implication implies I expect something from Lady Trevelyan, which I do not. I enjoy her company, and pray she does mine.”

“Well… that’s oddly refreshing. You do not expect anything from her…” Vivienne suppressed a laugh behind tightly shut lips. The sounds of her delight were muffled, but still carried a near overpowering warmth.

“Did you believe I was associating myself with Gaer- Lady Trevelyan due to ulterior motives?”

“My dear! She is a mage, a former Tranquil at that, and you a former Templar! Was I to merely assume that you were not observing her for signs of possession or falsehood?”

“Not when you were,” Cullen replied tersely.

Vivienne’s neutral features slowly spread into a smile. “Impressive that you noticed. I will not deny it: upon first meeting the Herald, I put her to a test. Freezing an obnoxious fool, who does not know how to behave within the constraints of a parlor, was enjoyable enough. I had hoped to see if Lady Trevelyan would display any sort of… demonic tendencies. She did not kill the man when insulted, nor did she request that I murder him when pressed for a decision. Not to say I left it at that. I may have accidentally shocked her with a small spell during our journey back… but no demon rose up to defend its vessel.”

The Commander nodded his head thoughtfully. The chill of the winter winds was seeping beneath his armor and layers of padding to rest snugly against his skin. He could have sworn a fine sheen of frost was forming ever so gradually over the surface of his chest plate as well.

“Why such concern for her?”

“I was acquainted with Lady Trevelyan’s mentor. She used to rattle on in her letters of how gifted her new apprentice was. Oh, how she loved to talk about the child learning a new spell or stumbling across a small, significant but unnoticed fact that became the bulk of a sizable thesis later on. I truly felt as if I knew Lady Trevelyan and was able to observe her maturation. So when Elliann died, I felt I could understand the Herald’s pain as I did my own.” Vivienne turned her eyes to the full moon hanging overhead, like a bauble on a cloak of sable velvet. “She would be so proud of Lady Trevelyan. I know that I am. I am also just as protective, if not doubly so.”

Vivienne drifted off into a world of her own thoughts and internal complexities. Upon finally loosing herself of its confines, she whirled upon the Commander. “Having established that the Herald is, in fact, not possessed, do you still intend to continue your friendship?”

“I already said I had no ulterior motive when befriending the Herald,” Cullen retorted haughtily.

“I will hold you to that, Ser Knight. I do not believe I need to inform you of what ramifications will be involved if I learn that you were false.” With that note of finality, Vivienne turned and strode –no, sashayed- to her quarters.

“Maker, that woman could make a Qunari pray for mercy,” Cullen mumbled. “Can she honestly be thinking like this when Gaerwyn is hurt?”

\--

The Herald had reappeared the following morning, much to the Inner Circle’s surprise. None would have faulted her for taking the appropriate time to mourn.

Her walk was faltering, and her gaze wavered on everything save the ground. During the war meeting, she set forth her proposal to seek out the offenders... and was denied. She nodded, pursuing the topic no further.

Cullen had to pursue her after the meeting, calling for her to wait. She did so at the entrance of the Chantry, but still hesitated to engage in conversation. Her gaze was trained on the ground and did not lift. Not even for him.

“Herald, are you well?” he inquired, paying heed to the Chantry officials milling about.

“As well as one may expect, Commander,” she said. “Would you care to walk with me?”

He wanted for little more. The two traversed the camp for a while, but inevitably took to walking the perimeter of the lake. All was done in silence. He didn’t know how to break the quiet. The situation felt so delicate.

“It took me three years to regain my control over my magic and my emotions,” Gaerwyn finally said. “After spending four years as a Tranquil, I think everyone involved was rather impressed that I could even manage it. I can remember being threatened by the Knight-Commander. He said that if I didn’t pull myself together, then I would be imprisoned… if lucky. The only thing that I can even recall with some clarity are my emotions. I was scared and angry and desperate…” She paused, turning to look at Cullen. “Three of the Tranquil who were murdered comforted me during that time. See, we have our names engraved on the inside of our rings. Helps identify the mage if the body is destroyed beyond recognition.” She lifted the gold band from her pocket, the Circle crest glinting in the sunlight. “They were the only people still willing to approach me. I… have to send letters to their family.”

Cullen reached out to touch her shoulder. She took his hand in her own, holding it within clasped fingers.

“I sometimes wish I was still like them,” she proceeded, choosing her words with care. “At times when anger runs strong, and emotions are almost overpowering. Things stop making sense. Maker, you must think me an idiot.”

“Whatever gave you that impression?” he asked.

“Look at me! Unleashing all this nonsense—“

“It isn’t nonsense,” he interrupted. “You’re allowed to mourn, Gaerwyn. Having doubts is just part of being mortal. Please, let me be here for you.”

The mage cast her gaze downwards once more. “Everything hurts,” she whispered. “I don’t know how I endured these emotions prior. Sometimes I can’t make heads or tails of all this.”

“Don’t ever look down,” Cullen ordered. He placed one hand under her chin, lifting it slightly. “Promise me that.” Maker, he was a bumbling mess around her.

She stared at him, eyes glassy with a fine sheen of tears. “Very well, Commander. I could not refuse a direct order, now could I?”

“Ah, there it is.”

“Where what is?”

“That suggestive sense of humor. I was beginning to worry.” He smiled.

“I can assure you,” she said, her voice a low purr, “I only suggest what I intend to follow through with.”

His cheeks flushed with color, and he audibly gulped. It worsened when Gaerwyn wrapped her arms around his neck. Maker, is she really going to kiss me; the thought slowly formed in his consciousness and idea was all but sundered when the mage twisted their ankles together in a playful attempt at tripping him. Cullen yelped in shock, grappling onto her to maintain steady grounding. Both failed and ended up in a flailing tangle of limbs. She was sprawled over his chest with her body pressed against his. They were so close that her breath manifested in a cloud on his armor.

Gaerwyn squealed in surprise, laughter bubbling from her lips. She flung a handful of snow at the Commander in a weak attempt at retaliation. The tears spilled from her eyes. Out of relief or sadness, Cullen did not know. Yet she laughed a laugh he never wanted to see her without.

Not ever.

He sat up, placing a gloved hand against her face. With his thumbs, he wiped the tears away with one tender motion. “You alright?”

She smiled softly. “I will be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So when I found out about how the Oculara were created, I was kind of floored. Well done, Bioware; ya just ripped my heart out and stomped on it. Oh, what's that? DLC content? I look forward to the emotional anguish.
> 
> When I began writing this story, I also started to wonder how Gaerwyn would react, or maybe just a mage in general. Within the game there are a few lines of dialogue, but that's about it. I couldn't get it out of my head that any magic-using character would be able to brush it off like I felt they did. I think Cassandra may have been one of the few openly expressed remorse, but again, I just wish there had been more dialogue.
> 
> Lady Vivienne also strikes me as an interesting figure. Since I have only played as a mage Trevelyan thus far, I've only seen her as a character who already had some form of connection to my Inquisitor. Next playthrough will be as Mage Lavellan, so I guess I'll bear witness to the change in relationship then. As a Trevelyan though, Lady Vivienne almost seemed kind of... Maternal. Please don't punch me. All the same, I feel like she would be confronting Cullen about his relationship with Trevelyan. That's just me though.
> 
> I'm going to go slink away to my special headcanon corner now.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	10. The Tranquil's Favor and Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaerwyn prepares to meet with Magister Alexius. She is understandably apprehensive about walking into a trap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the lack of chapter last week. From this point to the end of my semester (so a month from now), I can't say how regular my posts will be. I have A LOT of assignments that are coming up that I'll need to give my full attention to.
> 
> The reason I didn't post a chapter last Tuesday was because I really just wasn't very confident in the chapter's strength as a whole. So I decided to add in a bit more, and edit a few points. I'm a lot happier with it now. This chapter goes into a lot of character study, and more so how apprehensive Gaerwyn may feel over knowingly walking into a trap set up by Alexius.
> 
> All the same, thank you for reading!

_Commander:_

_By the by, the Hinterlands have mostly been secured by the Inquisition. Though it is one small region, it is still a foothold. Not that I need to argue the semantics when I am certain you are fully aware of this. The plight at Redcliffe is indeed concerning. I have spoken to Senior Enchanter Fiona, and she has provided little indication that she even remotely recalls our discussion in Val Royeaux._

_To add further concern, it appears that by Enchanter Fiona’s discretion, the mages have been placed under the protection of the Tevinter Magister Alexius. Alexius is a… concerning sort. I believe that assisting the mages to wrest free of Magister Alexius will be reason enough for them to consider an alliance with the Inquisition._

_Through the Magister’s son, Felix, the Inquisition has made a rather powerful ally. Dorian Pavus, former apprentice to Alexius, wishes to search for a means to end the Magister’s crusade. While his assistance is indeed conditional, and perhaps temporary, I can see his aid begetting much._

_I shall be returning to Haven within the week to discuss this with the War Council, but as I now stand, I wish to assist in the mages’ plight._

_-Gaerwyn Trevelyan_

To say that Cullen was reluctant to form an alliance with the mages would have been an underwhelming lie. He was opposed. And yet, Gaerwyn had explained her rationale well enough prior to departing for the Hinterlands. She did not mince her words, and while she was more than able to respect and take Cullen’s opinion into account, Gaerwyn also remained unyielding in her decision.

\--

The War Council had ended with the agreement that Gaerwyn would proceed with her intentions to assist the mages. She would have to act as a diversion while Leliana’s scouts infiltrated the castle via an alternate route to secure the area. Cullen found his mouth had gone completely dry when suggesting that Gaerwyn act as a mere distraction. It was too dangerous. If the Inquisition lost the Herald, then the world would lose its one salvation. Who, save for her, could seal the rifts?

To only worsen the already hopeless situation, no troops would be provided as support for the Herald. Seeing as the Inquisition was largely viewed as an Orlesian effort, injecting a small army into Fereleden would be perceived as a declaration of war. They couldn't take that risk. Not when their cause was still a fledgling, at best.

“I shall make the needed preparations for my departure,” Gaerwyn informed the council. “I intend on taking Varric, the Iron Bull, and of course…” She glanced over to the mustachioed mage who had accompanied her back to Haven. “Dorian?”

“Oh, I assure you that you will find it near impossible to shake me!” The young Tevinter smirked.

“Good to know.” Gaerwyn returned the gesture with a genuine smile of her own. “How long will it take for Leliana’s scouts to be situated?”

“They will be ready by dawn,” the spymaster said.

“Excellent. My traveling party will leave two hours beforehand.”

The small gathering dispersed, returning to their posts. As Gaerwyn took her leave, Cullen called after her. Her title had left his lips before he could put further thought into what he might say. She paused, her hand hovering over the door frame.

“Is there something you need, Commander?” she inquired.

“I just… wanted to wish you luck,” he began, feeling the anxiety building at the back of his throat.

“I certainly hope I have more than just luck on my side,” Gaerwyn responded. “What bothers you?” She approached the war table, allowing her fingers to brush lightly over the the yellowing map of Orlais and Ferelden.

“I should not have suggested you act in such a way. There is no doubt that Alexius means to kill you and yet I-“ Cullen found the words fell from his lips like water. His tangent of emotions and regret would have persevered had Gaerwyn not placed a hand on his armored forearm.

“I agreed to do so, Cullen. You did not force me into this. With any luck, our agreeing to meet with Alexius will lull him into a sense of complacency,” she spoke firmly, but with gentle undertones. “I wasn’t expecting a clean-cut, effortless victory.”

Cullen exhaled slowly. “You’re right,” he grudgingly agreed. “Promise me that you will retreat if the need presents itself.”

The mage nodded. “Here.” She removed the burgundy scarf worn religiously on her person. Some days it was wrapped loosely about her neck, whereas on other occasions it may circumvent her waist. She lovingly folded the thick cotton fabric in her hands, a nostalgic smile curving her lips. “I’ll be back for this,” she informed her Commander, placing it in his hand. “It may not seem like much but… this scarf is one of the few possessions that I refuse to be parted with for long. This is my promise that I will return alive. Does it suffice?”

“Y-yes.” He stumbled for the right words to say. “Heral- Lady Trevel… Gaerwyn.”

“Are we running through my rather impressive list of titles now?” She grinned teasingly.

Cullen laughed nervously. “I will take care of this,” he promised. “You have my word.”

“Then I believe that matter is settled,” Gaerwyn said solemnly. That was when Cullen took note of the slight pucker beneath the mage’s tunic. Hardly perceivable, unless one had become accustomed to rarely seeing the Herald without her scarf equipped to her person.

“What is…” Cullen started to voice his question, only to abruptly silence himself.

“This?” Gaerwyn hooked a finger around the silverite chain and gently withdrew the accessory. An ironbark pendant displaying a tree heavily laden with creamy white blossoms. “Samahl left it in my keeping before the Conclave,” the mage said, her eyes clouding. “It was her way of offering support, seeing as I would be standing before the council to testify. It’s silly, but… I had sworn on this amulet to protect her and make sure no clan would see the necessity to expel one of their mages again. I never took myself to be an idealist!” She tried to laugh, finding the effort stung in her throat. “Maker, has it really been four months since she died?”

“Lady Trevelyan?” Josephine appeared in the doorway, one arm supporting her writing apparatus. “May I have a word?”

“Of course, Lady Montilyet. I shall be there momentarily,” Gaerwyn replied.

“I have taken up too much of your time already,” Cullen blustered. “Forgive me. I did not mean to distract you.”

“Don’t apologize. It is… refreshing to know that someone is concerned for my well being.” Gaerwyn’s smile faltered. “I mean… that… Maker.” She held up a gloved hand, the Mark faintly humming beneath the thick fabric, clapping it to her forehead in a show of abject embarrassment.

“But I do care,” Cullen interjected. “Your well being matters. I should think so much is obvious!” He was desperate to impress his feelings without outright elaborating the depth to which those affections reached.

“I… This is silly. Don’t listen to me-“

“Gaerwyn, please.” He reached out to rest his hands over the mage’s shoulders. “Listen to me. You are a person, flesh and blood, before you are the Herald. When I look at you, I see a friend who I want to help. Don’t forget that… and don’t believe, for one minute, that I think otherwise.”

“Thank you.” Her body was shaking. “To be entirely honest, I’m terrified. I don’t want any more nightmares. Such is our lot, isn’t it? But… I will keep my promise. Stay safe, Commander.” Almost uncertainly, the mage tenderly rested her hand on Cullen’s jawbone. The sensation of flesh and stubble was lost to the layer of fabric between them. There was just the vaguest impression of warmth rising from his skin.

Gaerwyn eased away from Cullen, taking her leave of the room. It appeared as if she hesitated in her departure at the door. The Herald paused, inclining her head to say something, only to abruptly halt. She cleared her throat. Then she was gone. The Commander turned his attention to the scarf clutched in his fist. It smelled of a perfume that he couldn't identify.

\--

“May I come in?” Gaerwyn asked.

“Yes, of course,” Josephine responded, her gaze never wavering from her paperwork. Leliana stood to the ambassador’s immediate left, her arms folded behind her back. Save for Minaeve, the room was all but unoccupied.

The candlelight cast an eerie pall over the room. Shadows flickered on the walls, creating contorted dancers from inanimate objects.

“We wanted to inform you that our passage into Redcliffe has been secured,” Leliana said, stepping lightly in front of the desk. “Reinforcements will be situated and awaiting orders.”

“Thank you,” the Herald replied weakly. “I should hardly be surprised. Both of you are impeccable.”

Josephine set her quill down. She folded her hands, propped her chin atop the formation, and raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “What bothers you, Lady Trevelyan?”

“Oh, my own silly little trifles,” Gaerwyn said. “Walking into a trap with no knowledge of what may await me is always such a delightful predicament. Like I said, my own petty qualms.”

“Use that fear,” Leliana spoke firmly. “It will keep you alive.”

Gaerwyn nodded uneasily. “I do not know if I fully agree with your logic, Spymaster. Thank you, all the same.”

“I knew the Hero of Ferelden,” the woman continued. “I remember meeting this scrappy, terrified noble-made-warrior in a tavern. She did not rush headlong into danger by casting her fear aside. In fact, she was well aware that the situation could sour at any moment. Yet she did not let that deter her. She never let her fear dull her mind, she used it as a weapon.”

“I suppose that she is a prime example.” Gaerwyn smirked. “She is Queen now, is she not? How alike we both are! I am a mage before I am a noble. I wasn’t exactly trained in the fine arts of politics either.”

“That is a conversation for another time.”

Josephine rose from her desk, extracting a letter from a massive stack of paperwork. “We found Samahl’s clan,” she informed the Herald. “They are hesitant to speak with our scouts, but still, it is a start. We will continue to try to make contact.”

“Send them this.” Gaerwyn placed Samahl’s warped prayer amulet into Josephine’s waiting hand. A day hardly went by where she wouldn’t tuck the small object into her pocket only to remove it later. She would hold it to her forehead, seeking some connection to the deceased elf. “Her name is inscribed on it. It should be proof enough.” The mage’s hand drifted to the ironbark pendant secured about her neck. For now, she would hold onto Samahl’s blessing. If but for only a short while longer.

“I will do that. I’m still searching for any relations of Tristan. If anything turns up, you will be informed.”

“You have my thanks.” Gaerwyn remained for another half hour. She savored the warmth of the tea she was given, taking small comfort in the company of her advisors. The two women exchanged gossip, pulling the Herald into their antics. Together, and without the pressures of leading an entire war effort, allowed for the three to speak with ease. Allowing herself to be swept up into a conversation not pertaining to to the current war effort was a grueling task, but it put Gaerwyn’s mind at ease for the time being.

\--

Cassandra hacked at a training dummy, her training blade wounding the artificial enemy.

“I should be going with you,” she snarled at Gaerwyn’s approach.

“I'm not keeping you behind out of enmity, Cassandra,” the mage said in her defense. “Who will help lead the Inquisition forces?”

“Do you find your faith in Commander Cullen lacking?”

“Hardly! I’m not doing this to spite you! I have more respect for you than you expect. In turn, I hope that you can come to at least value my decision, because, unfortunately, it will not be changing in the near future.”

“I… I do respect you.” Cassandra tossed her training blade aside. “You could have left at any point, and still you remain. That alone should be reason enough to trust you. Why did you stay?”

Gaerwyn paused. “Do you want the honest answer?”

“Yes.”

“While I do genuinely wish to help now, I stayed because I was terrified. I still am. I lost my closest friend and witnessed the aftermath of a mass genocide. When I was presented with the chance to be protected, at least for the time being, I took it. Intentions change, of course. I realize now that mine did.”She raised her hands up in a gesture of helplessness. “To be completely honest, I think the idealism driving everyone is almost palpable in the air. It rubs off. If my efforts can help resolve the Conclave’s purpose, then I am more than happy to lend my aid.”

Cassandra smiled uncertainly. “For what it is worth, I am grateful that you remained. That in itself must have been an impressive feat of strength.”

“Perhaps. I wish I had your resolve, Seeker.”

“My resolve?” Cassandra openly laughed. “Believe me, I am just as unsure as a mere army recruit.” She clapped a hand over Gaerwyn’s shoulder. “Stay safe, Herald.”

“I think we both know that isn’t possible. Not where I'm going.”

“Accept the sentiment.”

The mage exhaled softly, her crippling terror banished temporarily. “Alright. Thank you.”

\--

“Hold it! Hold it!” Sera crowed from atop a table, an arrow nocked and bowstring pulled tight. “Hold it!”

“Fucking shoot it already!” Bull snapped. The archer sent her arrow flying, and the apple gouged into the Qunari’s horn was impaled with the projectile. “Nice!”

“Having fun?” Gaerwyn inquired from the doorway.

“Ah! There you are! Where ya been, Gaery?” the elf inquired, hopping down from the tavern table.

“Oh, here and there. Bull, do you need help?” She reached out to remove the speared fruit from his horn.

“Thanks, Boss,” he grunted. “Come have a drink with us,” He gestured for the Herald to sit down at the corner table.

“I won’t turn down an offer,” she said, settling into the seat across from Bull.

“So, you’re dragging me with you to Redcliffe?” the Qunari inquired.

“I didn’t think you would object. If you do not wish to join, then-“

“Nah, I’ll back you up. Just can’t say I’m very comfortable around so many mages- no offense, Boss.”

“You aren’t the first.” Three tankards of mead were set upon the table, one sloshing honey-sweet alcohol over the rim.

“Can’t say I’m disappointed I won’t be backing ya up on this one,” Sera mused, lifting a tankard to her lips. “Why can’t you mages just sit on yer hands an’ knock off with all the creepy shite? That’s not so hard, innit?”

“It comes with the territory, I’m afraid.” Gaerwyn sighed.

“Then find new territory! Andraste’s tits, it isn’t that hard.”

The Herald smiled softly against the rim of her tankard. She took a long swig of alcohol, and then set the it down.

“Hey, Blackwall,” Bull acknowledged the Grey Warden’s entrance. The warrior shuffled nervously over to the small gathering, taking a spot beside the Qunari.

“So, you’ll be off tomorrow?” he inquired.

“Yes. It will be… interesting to say the least.”

“Well, I can’t argue with that. Did you finish your staff?”

“Yes, it turned out rather well. It should prove useful.” Gaerwyn silenced herself before proceeding to unleash her concerns in a flood of anxiety. Her fears must have easily been visible on her face though. Bull ordered another round of drinks, shoving a full tankard into the mage’s hand.

“Don’t make that face.” He sighed. “You look like you’re about to shit yourself.”

“Ah, wouldn’t want to do that.”

“No. So drink and forget, for now.”

Gaerwyn obliged, tipping her head back and downing her second tankard of mead.

\--

“Herald, are you well?” Solas inquired.

“I believe I am.”

“Are you drunk?”

“No. Though it does help excuse my nerves, doesn’t it?”

The elf nodded slowly. “I take it that you and the Chargers were the ones striking up the racket in the tavern yonder?”

Gaerwyn looked away sheepishly. “I suppose I’m a bit more open with my feelings than I had believed.”

“You’re left hand tends to shake when you are anxious.” Solas gestured to the offending appendage. “You are not quite the mystery that some may think you are.”

“Should I take that as a compliment?”

“That is for you to decide. Take comfort in the fact that you are relatable.”

“The figurehead of the Inquisition thanks you, Ser Mage,” Gaerwyn crossed her arms, pressing her left hand into her chest.

“You are completely aware of your original function then?” Solas paused. “If Cassandra knew…”

“I made my thoughts rather apparent when I had my position foisted upon me. I fear I must cut our conversation short, Solas. If I may ask, would you be willing to discuss your travels in the Fade when I return?”

The elf smiled softly. “Of course. Stay safe, Gaerwyn.”

\--

“Well, you’ve answered the Call to Adventure, then?” Varric glanced up from the crackling campfire. A sheaf of sparks took to the brittle air, petering out promptly after nestling into the snow.

“In a sense, I suppose.” Gaerwyn shrugged. “I fear this conversation is a bit late, is it not?”

“True. I suppose saying you are on the Threshold would be a better assessment. Are you sure you’re ready for this? I mean, you didn’t exactly sign up to be the world’s last hope.”

“No, but I don’t intend on turning back now,” Gaerwyn sat down beside the fire, holding out her gloved hands to absorb the warmth. Her features were cast in a pale gold light, one which wavered and ran a tender hand over the shadowing of her face.

“Heh, you’re falling into your role rather seamlessly, aren’t you?”

“Do stories ever discuss how terrified one must be? I mean, certainly we see the characters facing great adversity, but I do not believe we ever have a take on their state of being. Ah, I am chattering, forgive me.”

“No need. I see your point. Just, don’t dwell on it too much.” He eased the Herald back to her feet, nudging her in the direction of her quarters. “We have a lot of ground to cover tomorrow. Better get some sleep beforehand.”

“Goodnight, Varric.”

“Get outta here.” The dwarf turned his gaze back to the fire. He stirred the stew bubbling inside the cook pot mounted above the flames, and sampled the broth thoughtfully.

\--

Gaerwyn made an honest attempt to fall asleep. She was roused by the slightest of breezes plying at the exterior of the small house, or the sounds of snow crunching under footfall. It took a great deal of internal coaxing before she could even manage to drift off into a marginally restful slumber.

_“Gaerwyn,”_ a tender voice murmured, like the low throes of wind, _“Sweet child, where are you?”_

The mage flung herself out of the bed and into a crouching position. She warily crawled towards the window, raising her head just enough to peer out into the darkness. Nothing. The torchlight “A dream,” she whispered to herself, out of reassurance rather than actual fact. Still, the mage chose to creep back to her bed in a similar fashion and engulf herself in her sheets and thick feather duvet. As she drifted into an uneasy sleep, the voice returned.

_“Gaerwyn. Little one.”_ The voice mingled with the winter wind and whistled a low-pitched tune. _“Sweetling, I will find you. I always do.”_

\--

_Gaerwyn is an adolescent again. Her slippered feet rhythmically pounded over the stone floor of the curved corridor. The Ostwick Circle’s tower was a maze in itself. Apprentice mages were prohibited to ascend to the upper levels of the tower for their own well being. Having already tried three locked doors, all the child could do now was seek out a storage room._

_She ducked into a vast room in which most artifacts were stored. Two tables ran the length of the chamber, cluttered with objects of arcane quality. The door was supposed to be sealed with magic… maybe a Tranquil tampered with the enchantment accidentally. They could be forgetful at the worst of times. Gaerwyn pushed the door closed, shuddering when the hinges squealed in protest. She slammed the bolt in place and permitted herself to breathe once more._

_**“Gaerwyn,”** a voice like honey sang through the door. **“Sweetling. Open the door.”**_

_She found her feet mechanically pulling her away from the threshold. The presence, as if sensing this, spoke again. **“Gaerwyn,”** The voice took on a tone like metal screeching over a whetstone. **“I know you’re in there. If you don’t let me in, well, I’ll be rather cross. I can’t promise I won’t hurt you.”**_

_She raced down the length of the room, ducking behind a gathering of statues. She curled up against the platform bearing up Maferath, her breath coming in short bursts. Biting down on her thumb, she inhaled through her nose._

_The door shattered. Whatever this thing was, it could destroy an enchantment laid by the Formari. It wasn’t a creature to trifle with lightly._

_Its steps were steady, like a predator tracking prey. It spoke once more. **“Sweetling, I will always find you. Come to me. Are you trying to make me angry?”** There was a loud metallic scraping as it slid an artifact off of a table. It landed with a loud clatter. Gaerwyn clutched her shoulders to steady her quaking frame._

_**“Gaerwyn… you worthless little waif!”** it howled. **“Answer me!”**_

_She curled up, trying to make herself smaller. **“Gaerwyn.”** The voice was like a breeze against her ear. If not for the threat looming over her head, she would have assumed that it was a game of hide-and-seek._

_The apprentice whirled around to stare up into foreign eyes. A face that she had once associated with comfort was contorted with sick amusement. The demon shaped the vessel. Deep blue eyes were now a vile yellow, and laugh lines that faintly curved about supple lips had deepened, tearing to reveal the muscles working underneath flesh._

_It reached out, snatching her up by the arm. Gaerwyn screamed out in horror, her voice cut short by the dagger sliding underneath her rib cage. She managed a creaking groan in the face of the monstrosity._

_**“Found you,”** the voice sang, a mere breath on her face._

\--

It was still dark when Gaerwyn was roused from her sleep. She clapped a hand to her side, tracing the puckered skin through the threadbare fabric of her tunic. Someone was pounding on her door... and not letting up. Such persistence, at an hour so unorthodox, was unnerving. The mage extricated her weary body from her cocoon, and approached the entrance..

“One moment,” she said with a sigh. She shifted the bolt out of the tumbler, braced her foot against the doorway, and wrenched the door open.

“Herald.” Cullen was taken aback by the woman’s appearance. “Are you well?”

“Bad dreams,” she said. “Nothing I can do about it now. Blast, I’ll have to mix a stronger sleeping draft when I return…” Gaerwyn touched a hand to her forehead in hopes of warding off the throbbing pain blossoming on her brow.

“If you wish to postpone the meeting with the Magister—“

“No, absolutely not. We cannot delay any longer… save for the five minutes it will take for me to dress. I shall be with you shortly, Commander.” The mage shut the door once more. She retrieved a clean tunic and pair of trousers from a nearby shelf, donning them with ease. What armor she wore was strewn about the floor in a mess. She proceeded to slip on her enchanter’s coat, cinching it in place with her belt. Her armored leggings followed shortly after. She finished by tugging gloves on, and clasping them in place with silverite bracelets. After completely dressing, Gaerwyn snatched up her staff from the corner.

She stepped outside, bracing her arm over her eyes to shield her sight from the glaring torchlight.

“Here.” Cullen handed her a wrapped parcel. “It’s nothing much…” The mage undid the wrapping to find a sandwich. It was identical to the red tomatoes and trimmings from the first meal they had shared.

“Did you make this?” she inquired.

“I… yes.” He rubbed at the back of his neck in embarrassment. “I woke up thinking that we would be having lunch together later today and just… went about my daily routine.”

“Thank you.” She tucked the meal into her satchel.

“Gaerwyn, about what you said last night-“

“Ah, think nothing of it,” she replied quickly. “I am sorry that you had to see me in such a state.”

“No, you don’t need to apologize,” Cullen insisted. “I just… Maker, this sounded so much better in my head.” He looked directly at Gaerwyn, finding he was once again at a loss for words. “Friends rely on one another, Gaerwyn. When you told me how you felt, honestly, I was more than happy to listen –I mean, I am more than happy to listen.”

“You’re far too kind,” she murmured.

“Just know that… I will be awaiting your return. You still haven’t played the lute for me. I mean- that is to say- Maker’s breath. Just come home.” He managed to complete his thought after tripping over his words a few times. “Few” perhaps, being an understatement. He wouldn't insult himself by claiming he was successful.

The mage nodded softly, concealing the slight curving of her lips behind a fist. “I am in your debt, Ser Knight.”

He chuckled softly. “No. You owe me nothing.” He placed a fist over his heart, a salute performed out of respect. She had observed the soldiers under his command utilize the formality when addressing him.

“Well, I have quite the journey ahead of me. I will take my leave now.” She inclined her head to the Commander, and then departed for Haven’s gates.

“Stay safe.” He found the words had broken free from his tight-lipped barricade.

She paused in her departure, and turned to look at the Commander. “My, where would be the adventure in that?” she said in jest, her lips lifting into a faint curve. “I suppose I shall have to. I wouldn’t want you having all the fun, now would I?”

Cullen smiled uncertainly. He raised his hand in farewell, and was met with a small bow in return. Gaerwyn disappeared through the gate to where her party was saddled and waiting. He could hear the shrill neighing of horses answering the mage’s approach. A moment of chaos followed, ending with the horse’s riders urging their steeds onward.

A storm of hoof beats signaled the Herald’s leave. She was gone.

\--

The Commander met with the Lady Ambassador and the Spymaster, who were now overseeing the mobilization of their troops. Leliana had already sent the missive for her Hinterland scouts to move into position. They were now awaiting orders from the shadows. A vast collection of birds was groomed and readied- so that the Spymaster could send messages when the need arose. She was working at a fast pace, one quill gliding over parchment. Whilst working she received and gave intelligence to scouts and soldiers alike, never wavering.

“The Herald has left,” Cullen told the Spymaster.

“I know,” she said, not lifting her head to meet his gaze.

“Commander,” Josephine said, “We realize that you are concerned for the Herald’s safety but… standing about like this isn’t going to keep her safe. If the Herald and Leliana’s scouts are unsuccessful, well, we may have to resort to more drastic measures.”

“What are you saying?”

The Lady Ambassador quirked one eyebrow. “You know exactly what I am saying. The threat Alexius poses is quite… intimidating. There is the chance that we will need to risk war with Ferelden. If we need to retrieve the Herald by force... there is no guarantee that we will be welcomed by Ferelden.”

“I’ve contacted King Alistair,” Leliana said, raising her voice over the scratch of her quill. “He should be aware of the mages’ plight in due time. We may be able to avoid a war if we can garner his support.”

Cullen sighed softly. He tugged at the top of his breastplate. Encircling his neck, just out of sight from prying eyes, rested Gaerwyn’s scarf. He didn’t know what faith he could put in a mere promise... in sweet words. For now though, he was helpless to do anything beyond that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo this chapter was fun and draining in so many ways!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	11. For You, I Will Create a New Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaerwyn will never witness the futures of Josephine or Cullen.
> 
> The Herald is thrown two years into the future, and is met by the world's end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Sunday night where I am, so this is technically an early post. Well... Back to diagramming sentences. Woe be unto me.
> 
> Thank you for reading!

In An Unwanted Future*

The Herald was gone. The Inquisition had died before it had truly been born. All rallying efforts, all attempts to redeem their cause, had fallen short.

Haven was under attack. The unnamed enemy that the Inquisition had unknowingly pitted itself against had sent a massive force to wipe out the effort in one fell blow. Templars and Mages, both corrupted and serving with mindless fervor, would be the dealers of such a fate.

Only Josephine remained. She rallied the surviving recruits, clerics, and civilians. She urged them to follow her through the secret pass that Chancellor Roderrick had told her of. This was, of course, after gloating to some extent about how the Herald had been proven a sham. With her fall at Redcliffe, Josephine couldn’t defend Gaerwyn. Why would Andraste allow for her chosen to perish? 

“Quickly, everyone!” Josephine gestured for the masses to follow. “Our soldiers will only be able to stall for so long. We cannot let their sacrifices be in vain.” She had seen the faces of those who had volunteered to defend Haven’s gates. They needed no reminder of what would become of them in the next few hours. How, inevitably, the Inquisition’s reserves would perish. Lady Montilyet could only pray that theirs was a quick death.

The pass was slick with ice. Barren of life, the path of retreat echoed with an eerie wind. Water dripped from icicles, landing on sheets of ice with a sound reminiscent to fingernails tapping on glass. The passage had fallen into a state of decay due to neglect, which made it all the more impossible for an expansive group to travel safely through. Not to mention that the warning, from what remained of Leliana’s scouts, had reached Haven far too late. There was no time to gather supplies, let alone make a strategic retreat.

“We’re almost to the tree line!” Josephine said, gasping for air. She had worked at a desk for too long. This amount of exertion was something she was no longer accustomed to. Not since her years of playing at the role of a Bard.

The people of Haven released a shared sigh of relief. With a renewed sense of purpose, Josephine rushed up the crest of the slope only to feel hope die in her chest. A force of mages and Templars had assembled, ready to wipe out the remnants of the Inquisition.

Josephine drew two concealed daggers from her ruffled sleeves. Let it never be said that the Lady Ambassador wore frivolous clothing. She refused to fall. Not like this. Not when she had promised Leliana she would persevere. Not when she had to ensure her siblings would live a life not threatened by poverty.

“Soldiers! Now is your chance to prove yourselves!” she shouted, raising one dagger over her head. “To arms!”

The recruits, some no older than sixteen, roared in agreement. They rushed to the Lady Ambassador’s side with weapons drawn. Together, the former Bard and her impromptu soldiers raced to meet the enemy.

To say that the battle was extended or arduous would be to border upon a fallacy. The opposing forces were overwhelming in number and power. While Josephine fought like a madwoman, her Bardic training giving her the edge she needed, the recruits were not so prepared. Though Cullen had managed to train the Inquisition forces to some extent, he had neither the time nor the resources to fully prepare the soldiers for a threat of this magnitude. 

The recruits were cut down with little effort on the enemy’s part. From behind, Josephine heard shrieks of horror as the enemy closed in on their flank. The civilians ran forward, interfering with battle formation when trying to break for safety. All were cut down.

The Lady Ambassador fought until the end. Her fine clothing was stained with blood and sweat. She had sworn off the Bard life to avoid killing again, and here she was. Cutting short the lives of those who might try to bring her demise. All the same, it was only a matter of time before Josephine would tire.

Her honed strikes grew sloppy. The initial burst of adrenaline died. It took one faulty misstep for an enemy Templar to trip her and open a gash in her throat. And still, Josephine fought to stand again. Maker, she would finish what they had started. The Inquisition would not die here. How she loathed the thought of this one cause sinking into obscurity. How the lives that she and so many others had sworn to protect would be snuffed out. How the Inquisition would become an idea. A passing thought. A foolish endeavor. History would not tell this tale; not when Thedas had reached its final chapter.

The snow streaked pink rushed to meet her. On the icy slope, Lady Montilyet died. In her last moments, she prayed that Leliana would find it in herself to forgive her friend's miscalculations.

\--

The dungeon smelled of piss and hay. Rats danced around the gray light leaking into the cell, skirting beyond Cullen's periphery vision. 

Cullen’s hands were bound against his back with a thick coil of rope. He was stripped of his weapon and armor, leaving him in only a tunic and a pair of briefs. The tunic had been stained by rust, blood, and sweat; the campaign that followed the Herald’s death had been declared in hopes of remedying a long since doomed effort. While Cassandra had hoped to find a new salvation for the people of Thedas, Cullen could not claim such selfless reasoning. He wanted revenge.

The former Commander pressed his chin into his chest, inhaling the lingering perfume of the scarf encircling his neck. The aroma soothed his tattered nerves. The faint trace of lilac- no, lemongrass- ginger perhaps? It vaguely smelled of her. Cullen coveted those fleeting moments where they would embrace as two comrades might, where he would steal a chance to press his nose to her head. She always smelled like some herb or another- as if she had run her hands through her hair while preparing alchemical ingredients.

Three guards had attempted to remove this one personal effect. All to no avail. Rob him of his blade, his armor, and his honor, but do not take the few remnants he had of her. 

He slipped a gold ring off of his little finger, tracing the name written on the band’s inside. One of Alexius’s men had been told to deliver it with news of the Herald’s death. If not for Cassandra’s restraining hold, the messenger would not have returned alive, let alone in one piece.

He had been selfish. He refused to send the ring back to the Trevelyan family with news of their daughter’s death. He hid it away until his colleagues stopped asking he return it. “Grant me this,” he had begged. Cullen knew there had been little chance that Gaerwyn would have reciprocated his affections, but there was little point in denying how he felt. She may have passed on, but his love chose to linger. 

In the darkest of dreams, she came to him. Desire Demons wore her image to entice him into breaking his resolve.

_I can bring her back._

_I can make her yours._

_I can free you._

_I can reunite you._

_What does it matter what I am, when I can look like what you want?_

_She is trapped in the Fade, waiting for you._

_She longs for you as you long for her._

_Just give in._

_Let go._

_And she will be yours. Forever._

In the morning light, Cullen said one final prayer.

Heavy footsteps approached, and keys jangled free from the guard’s belt. Cullen looked up, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion.

“It’s time,” the Red Templar said. “Rise to your feet, prisoner.”

Cullen did as was ordered. All the same, the guard prodded him in the back for emphasis.

His steps were leaden, but constant. Cullen managed to emerge from the Redcliffe dungeons without shirking in his walk. There was a crowd of individuals who had claimed loyalty to the Elder One gathered and waiting, like vultures circling a dying prey. The nameless evil had allowed for them to live in exchange for an empty promise of fealty. For now. 

The scaffold awaited him. Atop the platform was a block of copper-stained wood, an indent shaped for a head was vaguely apparent. An armored figure stood beside the object, holding Cullen’s blade at ready. A figure of his past that was now the harbinger of his end. Samson had claimed it as his own when Cullen had been captured.

Cullen whispered one last prayer. “O Maker, hear my cry,” he began, eyes forward and unwavering. 

“Seat me by Your side in death.” He walked past the mass of screeching civilians. They threw sharp stones at his raw back, oblivious to the lash marks decorating his torso. 

“Make me one within Your glory.” He ascended the small flight of stairs to stand atop the platform. He and Samson shared a long stare, his executioner’s eyes serpent-like and his smile oily. “And let the world once more see Your favor. For You are the fire at the heart of the world, and comfort is only Yours to give,” he finished. The words having left him, Cullen felt cold.

“Cullen Stanton Rutherford,” Samson spoke, addressing the audience of vicious watchers. “You stand accused of warmongering. Leading the next Inquisition into battle against the Elder One. When offered a place amongst the Red Templars, you refused.” Samson stooped closer, so that only Cullen could hear the hiss of his whisper. “The Lyrium sings so beautifully, does it not? Why not give in? Why not allow yourself to be a vessel to something so much greater?”

Cullen kept his head bowed, never looking into Samson’s dead stare. With a loud sigh, Samson grasped Cullen’s unkempt curls and dragged him forward. He pushed the former Commander to his knees, his chest now level with the block.

“The Elder One has sentenced Cullen Rutherford to death by beheading,” Samson proceeded. “Make your peace with the Maker, fool. Though it is futile. He will not be waiting for you beyond the Fade.”

Wordlessly, Cullen laid his head on the block, baring his neck to the executioner’s blade. Funny, how his own sword would be the tool used to cut his life short “Cullen!” a voice screamed from the masses. He glanced up to see Leliana restrained by two Venatori agents. She shouted his name, all Bardic teachings abandoned. She was about to see her friend murdered, and her chilly composure had shattered.

Cullen closed his eyes to the morning light, preparing himself. _O Maker, hear my cry: Guide me through the blackest nights. Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked. Make me to rest in the warmest places._

The blade was withdrawn from its sheath with a crisp sigh. He heard the weapon bite through the air, but did not look to see it hover over his neck.

_My Maker, know my heart. Take from me a life of sorrow. Lift me from a world of pain. Judge me worthy—_

\--

The Commander’s head was cut cleanly from his shoulders. It rolled a ways over the scaffold, pausing just before it could plunge to the ground below.

Leliana’s cries died in her throat, her legs giving out beneath her. It was over. It was all over. Everyone was dead. Murdered or made host to red lyrium.

Samson stooped forward, wrenching the head up by curls wet with blood. “Post this on the village gates, along with Arl Teagan and Eamon. Let it be known that those who would dare to rebel against the Elder One will meet a similar end.” He threw Cullen’s head to a Venatori agent. “I only hope I can add a king’s head to my collection,” Samson mused. With a sharp gesture in Leliana’s direction, the Red Templar spoke to the soldiers restraining her. “Take the wee little nightingale back to the dungeons. See if she’ll sing now.”

Leliana allowed herself to be wrenched to her feet and led away. On that day, she swore herself to silence. Whatever they wanted to know, she would never say. Ever.

She would sing no more.

\--

Gaerwyn had not expected to be thrown forward in time. She was standing in Redcliffe’s throne room, challenging Magister Alexius, and in the next moment, she was swept up into a viscous vortex of magic. All was dark… and then Gaerwyn found herself clawing for air.

She broke through the water’s surface, coughing and sputtering. Dorian was there, his features grim and soaked. The Tevinter explained that Alexius had launched them into an undisclosed point in time. To acquire the answers they needed, they would have to search. Neither would have assumed that someone was waiting to feed them the necessary information.

At least… until they met Fiona. The Grand Enchanter had been imprisoned, and her body was slowly being consumed by red lyrium. She was in a suspended state of dying. Why would it simply kill her when it could continue to gorge slowly?

The world had been damned when Gaerwyn was banished from her time. In two years, the Elder One amassed a demon army and assassinated the Empress. His reach stretched far, and he was merciless.

Gaerwyn could only wonder at the treatment that Varric and Iron Bull received. She found she would not have to look far though. They were in different wings of the dungeon, but facing similar treatment as Fiona. They were dying, and their voices and features easily mirrored this. Wisps of reddish mist rose about them, and their pupils were bright red from exposure to the noxious mineral. She freed both, finding the impulse to weep and beg forgiveness was so imperious, it easily could have brought the mage to her knees. This was worsened when they agreed to aid Dorian and Gaerwyn confront Alexius.

To admit defeat then would have sealed her fate, she knew.

Traveling through the dungeon eventually led the small party into the torture chambers. Bodies were strewn about without a care, blood stained the cobbled floor. The tables loaded with implements of torture also maintained a miscellanea of body parts –fingers and toes being prime, excessive, examples. Never had Gaerwyn found herself so sickened by the carnage of war. So why now was she feeling so faint?

Upon encountering Leliana, the Herald's determination was sent reeling. The spymaster bore the scars of brutality on her features and in her persona. She willingly condemned mages, where the idealistic Bard from the past spoke of her ardent desire to free those souls from the tower. Her complexion were sallow, ashen, and blighted. She was dying.

“Where is Josephine?” Gaerwyn asked softly. “What of Cullen?”

Leliana’s lips tightened, her facade impassive. “It makes little difference now.”

“What-“

“They’re all dead!” she snarled. “Josie… she was killed when she and the clerics tried to flee. Cullen rallied a last ditch effort to end the conflict with Alexius… he failed. His head was posted over the gates of Redcliffe village with the rest of his soldiers. Shall I go on? Perhaps you would like to know how the Warden Queen was drawn back to Denerim to save her husband, only to be murdered in front of his eyes?”

Gaerwyn’s breath became erratic. Her throat constricted, threatening to suffocate her. Why had she asked?

“We’ll change this,” she whispered, swallowing sharply. “We can make it so this future doesn’t happen…”

Leliana’s eyes narrowed. She shoved a ratty scrap of cloth into Gaerwyn’s chest, allowing the item to speak for her. This vision of the future had all the right to not believe Gaerwyn, but all the same, the Bard agreed to aid the Herald in her escape.

The castle resting above the dungeons was as one might have expected. It bore signs of decay, death, and spoke of the inevitable end. The Breach had grown in magnitude, and now bore down upon Redcliffe like a gaping eye.

The throne room had fallen into a similar state of neglect as the rest of the castle. Alexius stared into the fireplace, his back turned to the Herald. She felt her simmering hatred for the man roar to life. As she proceeded into the chamber, her feet left singe marks on the stained velvet rugs. Never had her rage been so potent or out of her control.

“Are you pleased with yourself, Alexius?” she asked, her voice echoing through the empty hall. “I certainly hope that this is the end you wanted. Isn’t it a pity when your plot takes a turn for the worse?”

She turned her attention Felix. He knelt at his father’s feet. Hardly a breath stirred his body into the welcoming rise and fall. If he hadn’t blinked, Gaerwyn would have assumed he was dead.

“How touching,” she spoke once more. “Why not end the world to preserve your son’s life in a corpse? Perfectly logical.”

Alexius had given up. He would have handed over the amulet without any further argument, only spurred to action when Leliana chose to end Felix’s suffering in an act of pure vengeance. Yet Gaerwyn struggled to fault her for this. The Bard witnessed the world fall apart, suffered months of torture, and lost her best friend in the process. The Spymaster had every right to be spiteful.

Alexius failed. The Herald’s rage counteracted that of an old Tevinter Magister’s pain. If not for maintaining some vestige of restraint, Gaerwyn in all likelihood would have burned Redcliffe castle to the ground.

In one last display of loathing, Gaerwyn wrenched Alexius’s staff away. He barely clung to life at that point; so there was little point in making a show of stripping the Magister of his power. She stooped down and disentangled the amulet from his other hand, prying his fingers apart and then holding the object out to Dorian.

A sudden roar rattled the very foundation of the castle. Talons raked over the door and demonic screams rent the air asunder. Dorian wrenched Gaerwyn back by the wrist, urging her to the foot of the throne- the furthest point from the entrance. The young Tevinter then proceeded to charge the amulet with his magic, the pressure palpable. 

“You have as much time as I have arrows,” Leliana told Dorian, stringing her bow.

At the very end, Varric, Bull, and Leliana volunteered to act as diversions as Dorian urged the amulet to life. The image of her two dear friends walking to their deaths would haunt her dreams. 

When the doors were flung open, and the glaring light of the Breach pierced through the darkness, Gaerwyn had to avoid discharging a spell into the onslaught of fiends. If she did, there was a clear guarantee that the amulet would malfunction again. Gaerwyn saw her companions each fall in turn, their corpses tossed aside by all matter of demons. She screamed Leliana’s name as the bard was cut down. Her breath was coming in erratic and short bursts. She couldn't do this. She couldn't watch them die. Not for her.

And then… she stood at Dorian's side in a throne room warmed by firelight... as it had been one year prior. The relief she felt then was ineffable. Had it been in a more private setting, Gaerwyn would have embraced Bull and Varric until their dying images were purged from her mind.

She chose to take the mages on as allies, and to take Magister Alexius as prisoner to the Inquisition. While his motives were noble in some sense, Gaerwyn mused internally, the pain he would have caused was enough to make her question what sort of judgment would be passed on the man. She would never condemn another soul to Tranquility, but she couldn’t guarantee a kinder fate either.

\--

Of course the King of Ferelden had to get involved as well. From what little Leliana had told the her of Alistair, Gaerwyn was under the impression that he would be game for witty conversation. Any conversation that would, perhaps, lighten the situation at hand. That being the assumption, the mage attempted to approach the king. She thought he would at least be a little relieved, seeing as he had one less issue to deal with.

“Your majesty,” Gaerwyn began, stepping cautiously. She was all too aware that he had once been a Templar. He still held himself like one. At least around her. Maybe he adopted the posture of a Templar when in audience with particularly obnoxious petitioners? She could only imagine how he viewed her.

King Alistair cast a chilling gaze in her direction. It was enough to make her want to back down. Certainly, the man’s uncle was chased out of his home, but to greet the person who righted the situation with such bitterness felt outright insulting. Gaerwyn bit back what remnant of her aristocratic upbringing would force her to respond with a snide remark. She was a mage before she was a noble, she reminded herself.

“I will have to beg your pardon, Herald,” he said. “I fear that I have more pressing matters to attend to currently.” His armed entourage fell in and proceeded to escort the king from the castle.

“Hey, Sparkles, you doing alright?” Varric asked, catching the Herald outside the throne room.

Gaerwyn brought the tattered, browned strip of fabric closer to her chest. The fine threadwork was unraveling in her hands. “I did the right thing, didn’t I, Varric?” Her voice came out with the same uncertainty a child might display.

“I couldn’t say,” he replied. “But does it ever seem like a good idea to imprison someone?”

“Well… I have a bias.”

“It’s not a bias,” Varric groaned. “You were locked up in the Circle for how long? It says quite a bit that you wouldn’t do the same thing to other mages.”

“What does it say?”

“You aren’t power hungry… not yet. I don’t know. I agree with what you did, but I don’t know if it’ll be the right decision in the end. You gave the mages a chance. Not many people would do that.”

“It could change, you know. I could go completely mad with power.” She smirked, leaning against the wall.

“Give me some warning, would ya?” Varric laughed.

“I make no promises.” Gaerwyn tugged at her overcoat. As she turned to make for the courtyard, the dwarf called out to her. She paused.

“What was it like in the future? How bad?”

“I would rather not talk about it.” She was oddly quiet. Her typical boisterous personality had been replaced with something more meek. Defeated.

\--

“What were you thinking?” Cullen found himself asking the Herald. “Taking the mages as allies? After all they have done? There could very well be abominations within their ranks. And with the veil torn wide open, you wish to give them free reign?”

“I did what I thought was best at the time,” Gaerwyn returned. She found her fatigue greatly impeding on her want to argue. “I couldn't condemn the mages to suffer for Fiona’s decision. Even she was trying to protect the mages. She was promised that they would be made citizens of the Imperium.”

“The Templars would not have given us such a hassle-“

“The Templars have agency in their actions, whereas the mages have none. Magister Alexius indentured the mages to their will,” Gaerwyn interjected firmly. “I chose to aid the mages because I believe they deserve the chance to prove they can operate autonomously. The Inquisition could give them this opportunity.”

“The Inquisition was formed to seal the Breach not to interfere in the dealing of mages and Templars.”

“No? Then why was the Inquisition formed directly after the Conclave if not to mediate the problem?” She had to stand on the tips of her feet to meet Cullen’s gaze directly.

“Enough!” Cassandra interrupted, clearly irritable in having been forced to bear witness to the Commander and Herald bicker over what was past. “We can’t go back on our promise now and imprison the mages.”

“We can’t rescind the offer. It would make the Inquisition appear incompetent at best, tyrannical at worse,” Josephine supplemented.

“That we would,” Gaerwyn agreed. She refused to look Cullen in the eye.

\--

The Commander found this avoidance near unbearable. He tried to lighten his words by inviting her to join the war council, but his frustration seemed to carry more weight than his efforts to amend the situation did.

The Herald attended the council, but solely to maintain a presence. She offered her opinion only when asked for it. Her anger created a tension threatening to snap at a moment's notice. When the meeting was adjourned, Gaerwyn was the first to depart.

\--

“Herald,” Cullen approached the mage cautiously. She stared out at the frozen lake, her gaze smoldering with frustration. “May I join you?”

“If you must,” she said darkly. Cullen sat by her side, his legs dangling over the dock.

“I wanted to apologize for my previous comments,” he began. “I realize that you did what you thought was best… and it was not fair of me to criticize your decision.”

“Oh, it was more than fair,” Gaerwyn returned, her voice brittle. “You are the Commander of the Inquisition forces after all. I had no one to consult, save for an infuriated king and my company. I wanted to ensure that there was no possible way that the mages would turn against us. I didn’t want to risk causing another rebellion, so in good conscience, I could not take them as prisoners. While it was uncertain, I felt my call carried less risk than imprisonment.”

“I see…” Cullen said softly. “Were you concerned how the soldiers would fare against the mages?”

Gaerwyn inhaled slightly. “The future I saw… I don’t want it to be repeated. I saw Leliana, Bull, and Varric murdered.”

“Did you… see me? Or Josephine?”

The mage’s shoulders slumped. “I learned of what happened to you, but… I suppose it was a small blessing that I did not bear witness to it.”

“Gaerwyn?”

The mage wiped at her eyes. With a choked out laugh, she attempted to divert the topic. “Honestly,” she began, “I believe that the pressures of my position are finally getting to me. The Breach being sealed shut will be quite the burden off my shoulders—“

“Gaerwyn.” Cullen reached out, faltering when his hand hovered perilously over the mage's. “You made the decision to protect me, didn’t you?”

“Don’t flatter yourself!” Gaerwyn sputtered, a blush rising to her cheeks. “I have plenty of rational reasons for allying with the mages. How illogical would it be to-“

“You aren’t a Tranquil anymore, Lady Trevelyan,” he interrupted, finally letting his gloved hand curl around her own. The heat of her body emanated from the layer of cloth encasing her hand. Even with two layers of fabric between the two, their shared warmth was undeniable. “Unlike a Tranquil, you can choose to throw pretense to the wind and operate without rationale guiding your decisions. To be honest though… your logic remains irrefutable in protecting your forces. Prevent a rebellion, save your soldier’s lives.”

She bit her lip with such force that the flesh split into a line of blood. “Leliana… the vision of her I saw, she said that Josephine was killed whilst fleeing. You… you tried to save the war effort after I was pulled into the time rift. Alexius had you…” She shut her eyes tightly, averting her gaze from him. “He beheaded you. Had your head posted at the entrance of Redcliffe.” She reopened her eyes, revealing a gaze glassed over in a sheen of tears. “Leliana gave me this…” She removed a faded red scarf from her pack. It was torn and fraying. A massive stain spread out from the center like a pool of black. “She said that it was around your neck when-“

“You don’t need to say anything more. I never meant to cause you pain.” Cullen wrapped his arms around her shaking frame, drawing her close to him.

“Don’t die,” she whispered against him.

“You know I can’t promise that.”

“I know. I just…” Her words trailed off into nothingness. Cullen did not press her to continue. The two remained in the other’s embrace for an unprecedented amount of time. Needless to say both were reluctant to let go. “May I play my lute for you?” she asked him. Her words did carry some hidden meaning, Cullen found himself thinking. “I fear I will not have another chance to,” was the weight of the implication.

“I would like that,” the Commander said.

“Wait here.” She proceeded to make the short trek back to Haven to retrieve the instrument in question. She returned in a matter of minutes, settling down next to Cullen. He listened raptly as she plucked at the strings of the lute, producing a melody which spoke of affections. Affections that would only be insulted if an attempt was made to put those emotions into words.

For now… the music she shared with him was enough.

\--

“Would you like some wine?” Cullen asked, holding his chamber door ajar.

“That would be lovely,” Gaerwyn replied as she stepped inside.

His room was simple, practically austere. He had a bed situated at the far end of his room where he could have a view of the outside without having to rise. A strategic view, but also one that allowed him to look to the stars at night.

His desk was on the other side of the room, set in such a way that he could look up from his work to receive scouts or guests. Gaerwyn slumped into the chair set before his desk, her body instantaneously melting into the plush cushioning. “I see Josephine’s influence is far-reaching.” She tapped the chair’s decadent arm. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you cave to this sort of luxury.”

“You’ve only known me for a few months,” Cullen said. “Though you aren’t wrong. She made a rather impressive speech. Saying how some nobles who fancy themselves adept in tactics might decide to visit me. Couldn’t have them sitting on a chair without the usual Orlesian trappings, now could we?”

The Commander stepped over to one of the shelves in the room, retrieving a bottle and wine glass from its perch. He kept his attention focused on not shattering the glassware, fighting the impulse to close his fist around the slender stem buoying up the bell-like bowl. Life as a soldier had left him untrained in many courtly graces. His hands were shaking as well, he realized. Another withdrawal was setting in.

Josephine had mentioned in passing that the Herald enjoyed this particular wine, and Cullen was soon making a discreet effort to procure a bottle. He still didn’t understand half of his actions, but found dire necessity in them.

“Are you feeling alright?” Gaerwyn asked. She propped herself up on one arm, watching him.

“Y-yes." He felt some success in managing to pour all the wine into the glass. Pain was forcing his vision to ebb around the edges. Faint footsteps sounded as she approached him from behind.

“Stop.” The mage steadied him by placing a hand on his wrist. Her body was pressed against his back, her left arm curled around his center. “Don’t push yourself.”

“How long have you known?”

“I overheard one of the Templars under your command,” she whispered. “She said you were struggling to focus while training the recruits the other day.”

“That was a rather bad episode. Forgive me, I didn’t mean to concern you—“

“Hush.” Gaerwyn wrapped her other arm around his chest. “You don’t need to apologize.”

Could she feel his body heat up? Or how his heart began to pound in his chest? Her embrace was so brief. Her arms fell away from his center, leaving him longing for her touch.

“I just- how are you not repelled by me?” he finally snapped, turning a bit too quickly.

Gaerwyn was startled by the sudden movement. Her feet stuttered beneath her, leaving her to flail in an attempt to check her balance. Cullen’s arms flew out to steady her. His hands encircled her waist and brought her close.

“Maker, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—“

“It’s alright.” She rested her hands on his face, and placed her forehead against his. “It’s alright.”

He brought her closer, shocked by his forwardness. “I’m a former Templar. I—“

“You are my dear Commander,” she replied. “Yes, you were a Templar. You would still be one if Cassandra had not recruited you.” She stroked the tender skin beneath one of his eyes with her thumb. “What kind of person would I be if I judged the Templar and not the man? I believe I would be the same as those who judge the mage and not the person.”

He was quiet. There were so many responses to her answer. He laid his head on her shoulder, giving in to his need for comfort.

“Could we stay like this?” he asked. “Just until the pain passes?”

“For as long as you’d like, Commander,” Gaerwyn murmured, sifting her fingers through his hair in soothing circles.

The two stood rooted in silence, steadfast and supportive. Time seemed to pause. The padded footsteps and the gentled voices of those in the chapel were the only indicators that beyond Cullen’s chamber, life remained mobile.


	12. A Servant to the Cause (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Marquis is invited to Haven in the hopes of procuring an alliance. Upon his arrival, the Marquis confuses Gaerwyn for being a simple Tranquil. Fearing that his embarrassment may risk a valuable ally, Gaerwyn opts to playing at being a Tranquil for the duration of his visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not posting last week. As the semester comes to an end, everything gradually becomes all the more hectic. I was overjoyed to be able to cross four or five things off my to-do list today. It is so early in the morning right now... I'll probably fall asleep in the next twenty minutes (just want to avoid writing the last thousand or so words for an easy paper).
> 
> I also chose to write an additional chapter, because the lead up to the chapter I had written beforehand was too abrupt for my liking. I've come to value pacing in stories too much to try and post something that was such a sudden development. I really wanted to work with a few ideas and flesh out some other aspects of my story before continuing. So this chapter was born. It ended up being much longer than I had expected too. What may end up happening is that there are two chapters posted this week, but I'm not too certain at the moment.
> 
> I realize I'm posting this very early and sitting here being all, "Seriously? Why isn't everyone up right now. I don't have a problem. What, it's only 1:50 AM. I'm totally fine."
> 
> Anyways, thank you so much for reading!

“We seem to do a rather unnecessary deal of preparation,” Gaerwyn mused over a sheet of paper detailing a list of requisitions.

“Try telling that to the recruits who just recently received weapons,” Josephine snapped, haughtily plucking the page from the mage’s hand.

“I do apologize for mocking the very integrity of the Inquisition,” the Herald shot back. “Why, with me chartering half of the resource expeditions, I’m completely useless in the grand scheme of things.”

Josephine settled into her seat, pressing a hand to her forehead. “Forgive me, your worship. I have been laying the groundwork for a potential alliance with this one noble house, and the head of the house will be visiting within the week. I need to assure that all goes according to plan, otherwise we risk a powerful ally.”

“Who is it?”

“Ugh. This noble from the House Archambault. Apparently he wants to throw his lot in with the Inquisition, and reap the benefits later. With what he has promised, well, his resources could significantly ease our current plight. The mages have placed a strain on our provisions, and he has a vast network of farmlands at his disposal.”

“Joseph- Lady Montilyet, I thought that the purpose of the Inquisition would be all but null once the Breach had been sealed.” Gaerwyn leaned forward. “Am I missing something?”

“The immediate threat will be dealt with, yes, but we can’t say if the smaller Rifts will be mended. There is also the issue of, well, ensuring that order is restored. It will take much more than dealing with the most pressing of issues to address everything. Why, when one first begins to pursue an ideal, it is only natural for other problems to crop up in the process.” Josephine was obviously pulling from a vast pool of knowledge.

“Alright. I understand now.” Gaerwyn bowed her head. “So tell me of our visitor.”

\--

Marquis Bonnet Archambault was a well-built man, Gaerwyn supposed. He was likely in his early fifties, his age betrayed in the hair graying at his temples and the deep set wrinkles folding around his mouth and eyes. Scratch that, he looked far older than fifty. Josephine had impressed on Gaerwyn and Cullen that when greeting the Lord Bonnet, to elaborate upon the fact that he was far younger than what appearances may indicate. Well… she wasn’t wrong.

The man dressed rather modestly, limiting the usual Orlesian decadence to gold trim on his sleeves with an intricate brocade running up the arms. His mask was shaped from porcelain with garnets embedded beneath the eye openings, the cheekbones were made prominent by a swirling design lined with obsidian.

“Lady Montilyet wants the two of us to be the first people he meets,” Cullen informed Gaerwyn, keeping his gaze forward as the two approached the bridge that led out of Haven. “Apparently the Marquis has a great deal of respect for the Templar order, and is rather enamored with the story of Andraste’s Herald as well.”

“Well, how fortunate that our Lady Ambassador sent the most strapping of our Templars then. You’ll lighten the blow when he begins to think otherwise about me,” Gaerwyn responded. She could see Cullen try to hide a blush with his hand.

“Commander Cullen!” the Marquis approached the two with outstretched hands. “Why, it is such an honor to meet one of your esteemed Order.” Contrary to appearances, the man was well guarded. Two soldiers were posted outside of his carriage, and Gaerwyn suspected that four more were waiting inside.

Cullen placed a fist to his chest and bowed his head. “The honor is surely mine, Your Lordship.”

“Ah, is this one of your mage allies?” he inquired. His gaze hardened when noting the Sunburst on the Herald’s brow. “A Tranquil? I assume she was brought to assist with my luggage. The terrain is rather unpleasant from this point on, I have been informed.”

“Wha- no,” Cullen stuttered. Wasn’t it obvious? Lady Montilyet had informed the Marquis that the Commander and Herald would be there to greet him. Why was he assuming otherwise?

“I have indeed been sent to assist you, my Lord.” Gaerwyn bowed. When she leveled her gaze on the Marquis once more, her eyes had adopted a dreamy haze. “I would be happy to deliver your personal effects to your prepared chambers.”

“Happy? The nerve of some of your ilk is unsettling,” the Marquis growled. “Very well. I have three chests, shouldn't be too hard for one of you to handle.”

“I shall see to it immediately. If I may take my leave, my Lord.”

“Go." He beckoned towards the carriage. “Now, Commander, I am rather interested in seeing these trebuchets. Modern warfare! How far we have come!”

“Indeed.” As Cullen turned to escort the Marquis down the slope to Haven, he couldn’t help but look back to Gaerwyn. She had already managed to disentangle two of the sizable chests, and was wrestling with the third.

“Now, Commander, are you familiar with the Chevalier? I don’t mean to boast, but in my youth, I trained to be one.” The Marquis was certainly a rambler, Cullen grumbled.

\--

“Gaerwyn!” Cullen caught the woman as she placed the final chest inside the Marquis's room. “I’m so sorry. I wanted to say something but I—“

“I’m hardly upset.” She cracked a smile. “It was an honest mistake.”

“Yet when the Marquis thinks he’s been made the fool—“

“An allied mage has offered to play as Herald for the duration of his visit if the need arises. Elsie, I think her name was.” Gaerwyn folded the bed covers back, flattening the wrinkles with her palm. “I think she can manage. For the time being, I will act as attending servant to Marquis Bonnet Archambault.”

“Maker’s breath, Gaerwyn, why are you letting him treat you like this?” Cullen didn’t understand. A proud mage allowing herself to be reduced to a servant, of all the things.

“I spoke to Josephine on how to approach this. She said we should avoid humiliating this man at any cost. He’s very proud, apparently.” Gaerwyn snapped her fingers, a light springing forth from her fingertip. She methodically lit the candles on the bedside table. “I’m not doing this for me, Cullen. The Inquisition needs the resources that this man can provide.”

“Will you be alright?”

Gaerwyn nodded, her eyes softening when she men the Commander's gaze. “The people who matter are the ones I need concern myself with,” she said gently. “They already know who I am.” Her words were largely reminiscent of a conversation the two had shared in the past. The exchange where Cullen learned how he was one of the people who mattered to the Herald. In what fashion and to what degree, he remained uncertain.

The chamber door swung open, and the Marquis stepped inside. “Ah, Commander, come to play bedfellow? Ha ha! I jest, of course.”

“The Commander was ensuring that I complete my work in a timely fashion, my Lord,” Gaerwyn stated, her voice falling into a serene monotone. “Is there anything you require of me currently?”

“Unpack those two chests, and draw me a bath,” he stated. “Be quick with it, Tranquil.”

“Of course.”

Cullen felt a fist tighten around his stomach, and his jaw visibly tensed. How dare this man try to demean her. How dare he speak to her as if she were not human. She, who willingly chose to play a role she had been forced into not once, but now twice. What right had he? Noble blood meant nothing to the Commander. Not when he was not privy to such fortuitous standing as the Marquis. Granted, he probably would have similar views even if he were of similar status to the creature.

“Tranquil, your Commander appears to be rather agitated. I’m certain the strains of commanding an army are taking a toll,” the Marquis continued, trying to be as amiable as possible. “Perhaps you should tend to his needs. Before my own. Commander, sit, sit. I’m certain the Tranquil would _happily_ give you a foot rub.”

“No.” Cullen outright refused. “I fear that would be abusing my authority.”

“Well, if you refuse her help in unwinding, perhaps mine would be more to your liking.” His voice fell into a dulcet purr.

“You are far too kind, Your Lordship. I fear that I must leave you for the time being.” Cullen bowed his head in respect. Before leaving, he approached Gaerwyn. “When the Marquis has dismissed you for the evening, please come find me. I will require a status report of how the mages are faring.”

“Of course, Commander.”

\--

Dinner proceeded at a pace that made a dead bird seem animate. The Chantry had a chamber specifically meant for courting a visiting noble at dinner, with an ornate table set at the center. Tapestries depicting Andraste’s crusade lined the walls, and rugs of rich fabrics covered the stone floor.

Cullen was seated to the Marquis’s left, and Josephine to his right. Grand Enchanter Fiona, Cassandra, and Leliana sat present as well, but left a chair vacant. The Herald’s seat. The necessity in their presence was somewhat diminished by the Marquis’s desire to speak solely to the Commander and Ambassador.

The Marquis prattled on with some energy, and was utterly oblivious to his hosts' uneasiness. Josephine was constantly casting glances over the Marquis’s head, to where Gaerwyn stood at ready with a carafe of wine. It was more than evident that she wanted to end this charade.

“A pity that the Herald could not join us,” the Marquis continued. “She was detained, you said?”

“Y-yes,” Josephine replied. “She went to meet with Arl Teagan, and a rather bad storm overtook Redcliffe. Our scouts say that the roads were reduced to churned mud.”

“Ah, a pity. Tranquil.” He snapped his fingers, and Gaerwyn was at his elbow. “Wine.”

“Of course.” She poured the rose red liquor into his waiting glass.

“This is a fine year, Lady Montilyet.” He swirled the beverage in his hand, catching the light at the correct angle to make the wine shimmer. “I must ask, what inclined you to begin using Tranquil servants? Does that not put your other guests at unease?”

“Grand Enchanter Fiona offered their services,” Josephine said, glancing over at the somber elf. “If anything, we hope that the Tranquil’s presence assures our guests of the integrity of our alliance.”

“Yes,” Fiona responded, searching for words. “What better way to convey our trust than offer our valued Tranquil?”

“Are you certain it is wise? I mean, they are rather… disturbing.”

“With all due respect, your Grace, saying that in the presence of a Tranquil—“ Cassandra was cut short.

“Lady Pentaghast, they don’t feel anything. You may say whatever you like. My son chose to join the Templar order, and oh, how he went on about how enjoyable it was to poke fun at the Tranquil. They were never upset.” He turned to Gaerwyn. “Tranquil, do you care in what way I address you?”

“I do not understand the question.”

“If I were to start referring to you as trash, how would you respond?”

“Trash is often used in a derogatory sense, or otherwise when referring to waste. I do not believe I am either. I dislike the implication.”

“How would you react?”

“I will not respond.”

Cullen could not help but experience some small pleasure in how Gaerwyn left the man dumbfounded. Sharing a brief glance with Cassandra, he could see she felt the same.

“Does my referring to you as trash upset you?” the Marquis pressed.

Gaerwyn was quiet. There was a brief twinge of contained rage playing at her jaw. “I do not understand the question. I am incapable of experiencing such emotional distress.”

“Of course not. This has been a lovely meal. I do so wish I could extend my stay past a week. But, well, a week must suffice to enjoy all this rustic air.”

Cullen looked at Gaerwyn. While she was maintaining a façade of serenity with startling ease, the underlying feelings of rage and despair were rather evident in how she clenched the carafe to her chest. When she recognized where his eyes were trained, she approached him. “Would you care for more wine, Commander?”

“Please,” he said, sliding the glass across the table.

Whilst pouring the wine, Gaerwyn pressed her side into Cullen’s shoulder in a show of comfort. It was a subtle enough gesture, and the Marquis was drunk enough, that the underlying affection went unnoticed.

\--

“This is unacceptable!” Cullen seethed. “We cannot allow for the Marquis to continue on like this with her.”

The four of the five heads of the Inquisition gathered around the war table. Yet, unlike the norm, their attentions were not trained on the map. The separate tokens that pocked the parchment’s face went untouched.

“Lady Trevelyan agreed to this,” Josephine said. “As much as I wish we could desist with this charade, we would risk a valuable ally in the process.”

“A man who cannot respect Tranquil, or the individuals who work under him is not one I wish to throw my lot in with,” Cullen snapped. He wouldn’t lie. He was livid.

“In six days—“

“Six days of that sort of abuse? What does that say of us if we let Gaerwyn endure?”

Leliana looked at him, eyes alight with a sudden understanding. Her lips curled into a knowing smile. “Lady Trevelyan agreed to this Cullen. If we were to reveal her now, no doubt the alliance would be incapable of forming. There is no saying of how the Marquis would react either. _You_ will have to endure.”

The Commander released a deep breath. There would be no convincing the three of them. Not when they knew what they were doing was wrong. It was obvious that the three were forcing themselves to maintain this ruse.

\--

“May I come in?” Gaerwyn eased the door to Cullen’s chamber open.

“Of course.” He gestured for her to enter, rising from his desk to greet her halfway. “Are you alright?”

Gaerwyn nodded. “I’m exhausted, but I’ll manage. I have before.”

“Did he hurt you?”

“Grabbed my wrist when I spilled some tea.” She pulled her sleeve back to reveal the welts. “I’m fine,” she assured the Commander.

“No. Stop this!” He placed his hands on both sides of her face, as gentle as if he were holding an infant bird. “You shouldn’t have to go through with this!”

“Please, Cullen. I’m so tired, and I just…” Her words were heavy with fatigue, and her eyes were heavily lidded with shadows.

Cullen hardly hesitated. He slipped his arm under her knees and lifted her up into an embrace.

“What are you—“

“Forgive me, I should have asked first. I just- wanted to make sure you were able to rest tonight.”

“Are you carrying me to your bed? I didn’t think we were at this point in our relationship—“

“W-what? Gaerwyn!”

The mage broke into a fit of laughter. She looped her arms around his neck, bringing her all the closer to the former Templar. “Thank you, Cullen. I wouldn’t be able to keep this act up without you.”

He walked the length of the room, removing one of his arms to pull the thick covers back from his bed.

“How improper,” Gaerwyn murmured, her voice slurring with exhaustion. “A woman in your bed. What vows of chastity are you violating?”

“Do you just get all the more suggestive with sleep deprivation?!” he sputtered. “I never even took such vows and… and… Maker.”

“I’m sorry,” Gaerwyn whispered. “That was out of line…”

Cullen laid her into the bed, sitting down and lifting one of her legs onto his lap. He proceeded to unlace her boot, gently easing it off of her foot. There were callouses forming on her soles from months of hiking through hilly terrain. The mage was somewhat abashed by the weathered appearance. She tried to slide her foot under the blankets, only to have Cullen curl a finger around one of her ankles.

“It’s alright,” he murmured as he removed her second boot. “How are your feet?”

“Sore. I’ve been running about all day for the Marquis and—“ Cullen pressed his thumbs into the arch of her foot, gently kneading the flesh.

“Should I stop?” he asked.

“I will never forgive you if you try.”

Cullen chuckled, continuing to massage the mage’s foot. She visibly relaxed, all of the day’s stress draining away.

“Where are you sleeping tonight?” she asked drowsily.

“My desk chair should be fine.”

“No. You’re sleeping in your bed.”

“With you?” The thought wasn’t reprehensible in the least, but propriety was putting up a weak argument against him.

“There should be enough room.” Gaerwyn patted the space beside her. “Please, don’t stop on my account.”

The Commander continued to massage the Herald’s feet. After she had finally fallen into a much needed slumber, he gingerly pulled the covers to her shoulders. Her eyelashes fluttered gently with the ministrations of her dreams. A string of incoherent words left her lips, she speaking to a phantom of her mind with a practiced Orlesian accent.

Cullen spent the next two hours reviewing reports sent from the various areas where the Inquisition had established a foothold, and then wrote a few of his own. By candlelight, he shed his armor, placing the armor onto a waiting stand. He cautiously approached the bedside, moving over the mage’s slumbering form and settling into the space beside her. He rested on his side, turning towards the window so to not be facing Gaerwyn. It was a silent attempt at offering the woman as much of the bed as he could manage without one of his limbs slipping between the frame and wall.

The woman shifted slightly, rolling over so that her cheek was pressed to the ridge of his spine. He swallowed, trying to muffle the quickening of his heartbeat.

“No. He's not a bird.” she mumbled, words falling onto her pillow. “No.”

One of her legs tangled around Cullen’s hip as her unconscious body sought out the new source of warmth. She slid one of her arms into the junction of his arm and side, her hand curling into the cloth of his shirt. He couldn’t breath. She was so close. Why was he reacting this way? Whenever he had embraced her in the past, it had been done with the friendliest of intentions. Strictly platonic, he had told himself. Urged himself.

Yet when the Marquis had treated her so cruelly, he found it took every fiber of his being not to hurl the man off of the bridge. The way she had pressed herself against him at dinner, steadying one hand over his while she poured him wine was enough to send his mind hurtling in three different directions.

With a soft sigh, Commander Cullen placed his hand on top of Gaerwyn’s, rubbing the exposed flesh of her fingers. Even to bed, she had opted to wear her gloves. Was she so keen on hiding the Mark from even him?

Cullen allowed himself to sink into a deep sleep, his mind lulled into a peaceful rest by the mage’s shallow breathing.

\--

Gaerwyn awoke the following morning to find herself entangled in Cullen’s embrace. Well… it was a bit hard to tell who had instigated the gesture whilst the two were sleeping. She was pressed against his chest, one arm draped over his side and the other beneath his shirt. With a yelp of mortification, Gaerwyn withdrew her hand, the feel of his chest still fresh on her fingers. She was not oblivious to how one leg had been laced between his, or how her other leg was wrapped around his waist and pinned under his body. With a concerted effort, she managed to extricate herself from the man.

“Gaerwyn?” Cullen slowly opened his eyes. “What time is it?”

“A bit before dawn,” she responded, leaning over to lift a lock of hair away from his face. “I never realized how thick your hair was. What would it be like if you didn’t tame it every morning?”

“A mess,” he replied. “The Marquis won’t be awake for another few hours. You could rest for little longer…”

She shook her head. “I’m afraid I can’t. I used to do this sort of work around the Tower every day. Rising before the sun is a necessity. I’m surprised you aren’t already dressed and drilling the recruits.”

“I gave them the day off.” He yawned, slowly sitting up. “Will you be alright? I can’t stand to see him treat you like he did at dinner. He sees you—“

“Like most everyone outside of the Circle sees Tranquils,” she finished. “I’ve dealt with this sort of treatment before. It’s hardly a novel experience.”

“If you need anything, come find me,” he placed one hand on her forearm, looking her squarely in the eyes. “You don’t deserve this.”

“Most servants don’t.” She shrugged. “I’ll manage.”

In a gesture of comfort, Gaerwyn lifted her hand to Cullen’s head. The attempt at offering him some soothing ended with the mage sifting her hands through his hair, and curling locks around her fingers.

“Ah, forgive me!” she pulled her hands back. “That was far too forward.”

“It’s alright.” He had to look away to hide the blush raging across his cheeks. “It felt rather nice, actually.”

“I’m glad. Well, I will see you when you sit down to break your fast.” She stuffed her feet into her boots, and laced them firmly in place. “Until then.”

After Gaerwyn departed, Cullen finally allowed himself to reach up to his head to run his fingers through his hair. He wanted to memorize the faint impressions her fingers had left. All of this made him feel rather foolish.

With a loud sigh, the Commander fell back into the embrace of his bed. He slept for another hour before rising to prepare for the dreaded morning meal.

\--

When Cullen entered the dining room, he was met with a spread of similar grandiosity to that of dinner the night previously. There was a platter of various exotic and colorful fruits towards the center of the table, smothered in a caramel glaze. Roasted quail seasoned with sage and rosemary stood proudly as the centerpiece, wisps of steam rising from the golding meat. Venison bathed in a wine sauce and then laid out upon a bed of garnish sought to be one of the crowning achievements of the meal, if not for being one of the more garish. A small plate of various Orlesian pastries sat inconspicuously to the side, the scent so sweet it threatened to rob Cullen of his sense of smell.

“Maker's breath, this is far too decadent,” he grumbled.

“Given the current plight with our rations, I would have to agree,” Gaerwyn replied. She placed a still steaming loaf of bread onto the table, while balancing a milk jug in the crook of her arm.

“Here, let me help.” Cullen took the precariously placed container, stationing it on the nearby drink table. “You’re helping prepare the meal as well?”

“It would seem out of place if I didn’t,” she explained. “I gave the Marquis his morning tea, and now I need to return to see if he needs assistance in dressing.”

“Of all the things that man can’t manage, he can’t pull a tunic over his head? I didn’t think the nobility was rife with child—“

“Good morning, Commander!” The Marquis threw the doors of the dining room open, entering with arms outstretched. He had chosen to appear in his dressing robe, hardly aware of what a fool he was making of himself. Or not caring. “What a lovely meal. Rather quaint and small… but, still how absolutely rustic!” He turned his gaze to address Gaerwyn. “Tranquil, see me to my seat.”

Gaerwyn wordlessly complied. She eased a chair away from the table for the Marquis, the only visible acknowledgement of her irritability being how white her knuckles were against the varnished wood.

“Sit with me, Commander. I would rather enjoy continuing our conversation from last night,” he went on. 

Breakfast proceeded in a similar vein as dinner had. The other heads of the Inquisition filed in, and suffered through the Marquis’s drawn out tangents on Chantry politics and various other topics.

After the meal, the Marquis excused himself with a foul headache. He ordered Gaerwyn to follow him back to his chambers. She cast a glance towards the full table, and was met with four rueful stares. They obviously disliked seeing the mage reduced to this treatment, but were incapable of doing anything. Their hands were tied by the tightest of political knots.

\--

“Maker, this town is a bloody ramshackle,” the Marquis growled, removing his mask. His eyes were red rimmed and heavily bagged with flesh. He turned his gaze on Gaerwyn as she went about her work. “The Commander seems to be rather fond of you,” he mused.

“Commander Cullen is a good man,” Gaerwyn said, folding back the bed covers. “He cares for the mages here.”

“That he does,” the Marquis murmured. “There’s a salve in that chest over there. Bring it to me.”

Gaerwyn approached the third chest, recognizing the enchantment woven into the lock almost immediately. The kind of magic that could cause extended periods of paralysis if tampered with.

“Not that chest, you dull thing!” he snarled. “The one to your right. Idiot.”

“My apologies,” she said. She straightened up and approached the indicated chest.

“Do you know when the Herald will return?” the Marquis inquired as she approached with the salve. “I can’t say I want to form any alliance without first meeting such an important woman. She’d be quite the inspiration to your lot, wouldn’t she? Ah, don’t answer. Your kind is happier being dull-minded lack wits.”

Shortly afterwards, Gaerwyn was dismissed for three hours. She went directly to Josephine’s office, throwing the door open with a loud bang.

“Was that necessary?” the Lady Ambassador asked.

“Try acting like a quiet mouse for not one day, but two, and then tell me it isn’t necessary,” she retorted. “The Marquis won’t agree to any sort of alliance until he meets the Herald. We’ll need Elsie to be ready by tomorrow.”

Josephine nodded. “Understood. How are you faring?”

“I hate this. Maker only knows how much. But we need the provisions that idiot can provide. I recognize how imperative this alliance is. I won’t sabotage it just to mend my wounded pride,” she assured the Ambassador.

“Only six more days,” Josephine replied gently.

“That sounds rather like six eternities,” Gaerwyn said with a shrug. “I’ll take my leave now.”

\--

By Gaerwyn’s request, Cullen had sent a scout to retrieve clothing from her quarters. There was little chance of her being able to leave the Chantry in the near future, not when she was waiting on the Marquis’s every need. She would be fortunate if she could spare a moment for anything other than sleeping or bathing.

Cullen had opted to place the clothing in a spare drawer in his quarters. He wasn’t assuming she would sleep in his room for the duration of the Marquis’s stay, but it would certainly be easier if her clothing was close at hand.

There was a sudden knock at his chamber door. Cullen shoved the drawer closed, opening it slightly to push the edges of clothing inside.

“Enter,” he answered. 

“Commander!” The Marquis traipsed inside, arms outstretched. Fortunately, he had changed into attire that befitted his station. “I was so disappointed to learn you weren’t drilling the recruits today. Why, I was looking forward to seeing the Inquisition forces at work.”

“I usually have them rest a day out of the week. I can’t overwork them,” Cullen said. He sat down at his desk, trying to appear preoccupied by reports. This did not deter the Marquis. The man was either oblivious or willing to impose.

“How kind of you,” he said dismissively. He sat down in the plush chair set before the desk. “I must ask you how you came to be the leader of the Inquisition forces. Weren’t you promoted in Kirkwall? Knight-Commander is quite the prestigious position.”

“Lady Cassandra asked that I join the Inquisition, and I saw no reason to refuse,” Cullen replied, signing a report he had hastily read through.

“Did you bring that Tranquil with you?”

“Who- oh. No. I did not,” he said.

“Funny, you two seem oddly close with one another,” the Marquis mused offhandedly. Cullen’s eyes narrowed.

“What exactly are you trying to imply?”

“Nothing, nothing. Except… at dinner, and then when breaking fast this morning, you kept looking at her. Quite longingly, I must say.”

“I do not appreciate the implication, Your Lordship.”

“What implication? I suppose she’s pleasing enough on the eyes. Kingdoms wouldn’t go to war over her beauty, but, well, I wouldn’t blame any lad for wanting to ruffle her—“

Cullen’s glare silenced the Marquis. “Under no circumstances whatsoever, would I take advantage of my charges,” he said through gritted teeth. “Yes, she is quite lovely. No, I would never touch her in such a way. Nor would I allow the recruits or anyone else to. I extend that sort of courtesy to any of the Tranquil and mages.”

“An honorable man, indeed,” the Marquis mused. “I can see why you were chosen for the position. I shall see myself out, Commander. This talk has been rather… enlightening.”

He couldn’t help but grimace over how the aristocrat managed to make anything sound so scandalous. No doubt Gaerwyn was having to keep her wits about her as well. Unlike Cullen, she had some experience with the Game, and was capable of turning the tides to her benefit. The only way he could assist her would be to not permit any indication of their relationship slip past his already weak façade. He was already failing.

\--

Nightfall brought with it an exhausted mage. Gaerwyn struggled to push the door open to Cullen’s chamber, her arms twinging with sore muscles.

“Are you alright?” Cullen asked. He reached out to take her into his arms, lurching to a halt before he could accomplish this.

“The Marquis ordered me to rearrange the furniture in his room,” Gaerwyn stated. “He said he disliked having his bed so close to the window. He was suffering from the draft it incurred.”

“I’m ending this,” Cullen seethed. “Josephine can find someone else to attend to the Marquis’s needs. The Inquisition needs the Herald to be at her best.”

“I’m fine, Cullen,” she insisted. “This is no different from the amount of travelling I do. May I sleep here tonight?”

He nodded, jaw clenching in frustration. How could he be so helpless? “Yes, of course. I could massage your back if you like,” he offered.

“I wouldn’t want to impose,” the mage murmured, falling heavily onto his bed.

“This being said by the woman dealing with an obnoxious aristocrat.” He laughed harshly. “You aren’t imposing.”

Cullen eased Gaerwyn onto her stomach, with her arms wrapped around a pillow. He gently prodded the muscles coursing through her arms and shoulders, locating the knots hardened under her flesh. Her body responded instantaneously to his touch, the tight muscles loosening and falling seamlessly into place. The intimacy of the moment was comforting, he found. The two had grown close in the past few months, even while being preoccupied by their duties. Duties which confined him to Haven, and obligations that took her weeks away. Perhaps it was simply him imagining it. The intimacy, or the affectionate glances. He didn't dare act on what he thought, or bother to inquire either. Of the few things he refused to risk losing, Gaerwyn's friendship was held in high regard.

“I had a scout procure your clothing,” he told her. “I stored it here. Where would you like me to put it- your clothes, I mean.”

“Here is fine,” she murmured sleepily. Her breathing was shallowing as the minutes ticked by.

Like before, the mage fell asleep while he massaged the stiffness from her limbs. From her lips fell strings of garbled words, easily betraying her tendency to speak whilst slumbering. Not that Cullen found himself minding. One of the Templars he had shared a room with in Kirkwall had requested a transfer because of Cullen’s sleep mutterings.

“You can’t have it,” she choked in her sleep. “I won’t do it. No.” Her arms curled around her chest, as if she were protecting her body from an oncoming blow. He would have to ask her about this statement in the morning. After removing her boots, Cullen repeated the process from last night, which ended with him laying down beside her.

\--

Gaerwyn woke with a low groan rumbling in her throat. She lifted herself off of the bed, landing in a heap on the floor. Like a statue being raised, she rose up into a kneeling position.

“Sleep well?” Cullen inquired, turning over so he could peer past the bedside.

“I have never been so sore in my life,” she groaned. “Maker preserve me.”

“Do you remember what you dreamt of last night?” Cullen asked.

She shook her head. “Did I say something worrying?”

“You seemed to have been arguing with someone. Saying whoever it was couldn’t have some object or other.”

Gaerwyn’s lips tightened into a thin line. “Ah, that dream.”

“If you do not wish to speak of it, then I will not bring it up again. Forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” she said. “I would rather not speak of it for the time being.”

“Did you know you also grouse on in your sleep with a near flawless Orlesian accent?” Cullen made his best attempt at lightening the mood of the situation.

The mage sat down on the edge of the bed. “My mother is Orlesian. She had a hand in my upbringing, so I inherited certain qualities from her. Like an accent. My first tutor worked til he went near mad, I swear, to try and force what trace of an accent I had out.” She shrugged. “It was enjoyable to summon Orlesian phonetics when I was making fun with my mother. If things had gone differently I would have probably been sent to an Orlesian university.”

Her last statement seemed to imply that if her magical abilities had not manifested, Gaerwyn would currently be nesting in some university library with a hoard of associates to consort with over any manner of topic. Granted, the Circle may have offered opportunities running in a near identical vein, one allowed for freedom while the other did not. She looked out the window, grimacing. The moon was still the omnipresent ruler of the sky, and had yet to cede the throne to the sun’s morning light.

“Your mother, what is she like?” Cullen reached up, tucking a tendril of auburn hair behind her ear.

“She was a Chevalier before, and for a time after, she got married. Out of my two parents, she was the more disciplined presence in the household. She refused to give up me or my siblings to a wet nurse, and insisted that we were allowed the time to be children. Not to say that our studies were to be neglected. Woe be unto the child who did not take their lessons seriously. I can remember having this bout of tantrums when I was younger, and refusing to study for my lessons beforehand. When our governess found out, so did mother. Therefore, mother refused to let me leave the library for anything other than meals and sleep for an entire week. She oversaw my studies herself, and ensured that by the time I rejoined my siblings, I was ahead by three months. Throwing a tantrum didn’t even faze her. No surprise, seeing as I was the youngest of five.”

Cullen smirked. “Is that why you start to fidget when you can’t remember a date in history?”

“You would be too!” Gaerwyn shot back. “Maker, that woman was horrifying.” The last sentence spoke with a dusky warm Orlesian accent.

The Commander tilted his head to the side and laughed. “What of your siblings?”

“Ah. Let’s see… Dante is my elder brother. He chose to join the Chevaliers and stands to inherit the family estate. Jane is a sister in the Chantry; from what I hear, she is charged with researching old texts. My brother Byron chose to be an artist, while his twin, Edgar, opted to join the private army of a Fereldan noble. We lost him at Ostagar…” She smiled sadly. “I received word while I was a resident of the Ostwick Circle, but was asked not to attend his funeral. There wasn’t a body to burn, but, well, it was more so because, well,” she tapped the brand on her forehead. “My parents didn’t want to feel like they had lost two children instead of just the one.”

Cullen pulled himself up into a sitting position. “Do you have siblings, Commander?”

“Two sisters and a brother,” he replied. “It’s… hard to imagine losing them.”

“I pray you never have to experience it,” she whispered. “I need to heat the water for the Marquis’s bath, and do an assortment of other things before he wakes. Where did you say my clothes were?”

“Lower drawer.” He gestured to the other side of the room.

She rose from her place on the bed, the faint impression of her body already fading from the mattress. She approached where her clothing was stored, removing a fresh shirt and pair of briefs. With the clean attire draped over one arm, she made to exit the room. As the door shut behind her, her Commander laid back down to steal a few more moments of sleep before he needed to rise. Drilling the recruits would be his sole excuse for not being able to join the Marquis in breaking fast, but it was excuse enough. The bed smelled of her, and he couldn't help but smile at that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was brainstorming during class one day (because boring lectures. What am I saying? All my lectures are fun... maybe not Geology) and I began to wonder what would happen if a noble were to come to Skyhold/Haven and mistake the Herald for another Tranquil. Now, what would happen if I gave the noble in question a serious problem with being humiliated even to the slightest degree. Now, WHAT WOULD HAPPEN if Cullen was there and was romantically interested in the Inquisitor. Now, WHAT WOULD HAPPEN IF THE NOBLE WAS A TOOL TO TRANQUILS BECAUSE HE THOUGHT THAT THEIR ONLY USE WAS SERVING OTHERS. Thus, this chapter(s) was/were formed. These next few chapters may be longer than the norm, but I've come to realize most of what I post runs to be about ten pages.
> 
> Anyways, I appreciate comments and critiques cuz' I get to hear what I'm doing right and what I can improve on. And, I really appreciate that you're reading my fanfic. Thank you so much!


	13. A Servant to the Cause (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of the Marquis's visit to Haven.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: mention of sexual abuse and some violence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK so... *ahem.* ONE THOUSAND VIEWS? COME BACK HERE AN LET ME LOVE YOU THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR STICKING WITH ME AND BEING AMAZING.
> 
> Ok, so it felt a little mean to not have the little arc I wrote up in its entirety. I also have a really bad habit of once having written something I MUST post it to share. So I made an exception here, seeing as I have a chapter I can post next week and only about three weeks until the end of my semester. 
> 
> The chapter was much lengthier than I intended for it to be. Everything should be resolved with the next part that I post this coming week. This was an interesting idea to work with, and I'm glad I got the chance.
> 
> Thank you for reading!

Cullen offered to show the Marquis the trebuchets after their morning meal. He hoped that by doing so, he could ease some of Gaerwyn's burden. Try as she may to hide the signs, she was stricken by a constant fatigue. Sleep permitted her some relief, but was not enough for her to fully recover. While the nobleman insisted that she come along on his morning escapade to attend to any needs of his that may crop up, the mage could rest easy. His attentions would be preoccupied for the time, and he wouldn't be so overly intent to order her about.

"How magnificent!" the Marquis crowed, shading his eyes with one slender hand. "By the Maker, this is certain to send those demons back to wherever they came from."

One trebuchet towered over the three, a rather impressive sight. Cullen had to warn the soldiers beforehand not to address the Herald, threatening them with whatever task he deemed unpalatable. What sort of person enjoyed washing dishes for an entire army? Or cleaning the Spymaster's birdcages? He did not have to look far for suitable punishments.

Gaerwyn stationed herself a few paces behind the nobleman and Commander, her gaze trained on her folded hands. Whenever Cullen glanced her way, he'd note how the mage seemed to be drifting off into sleep whilst standing. He would raise his voice to rouse the woman when he was addressing the Marquis.

"We were fortunate to acquire these," Cullen replied. "With the Trebuchets, we have a chance to end this threat."

"What of your men, Commander?"

"I expect they'll be up to a king's standards by the end of this month." He tried to suppress the pride tinging his words.

The sun beat down on their heads. Even in the winter chill, a bead of sweat detached from Cullen's hairline and rolled down his neck. He glanced back at Gaerwyn, who offered a weak smile. When the Marquis followed Cullen's eyes, he was met with the image of Gaerwyn's downturned features.

"The Herald has returned!" one of Leliana's scout called. "She's back!"

Varric, Iron Bull, and Dorian had all volunteered to perpetuate the ruse. Two hours before dawn, they slipped out of Haven with horses in tow, leading out the mage acting as Gaerwyn's double. It took an impressive amount of manpower to pull off the pomp and circumstance that an outsider might assume the Herald would be greeted with. Typically, she would slip into town during the dead of night to avoid drawing attention to herself. If she arrived during the daylight hours, which was rare to begin with, she wandered the forested area outside of Haven until sunset. Calmed her nerves, she claimed.

"Commander, I simply must greet the Herald." The Marquis pointed towards the mage dismounting from her horse. "Let us be off."

"Of course, Your Lordship," Cullen said. He was more than happy to accommodate the Marquis's idiotic pursuits.

"Tranquil, you aren't required at this time. Leave us." Gaerwyn was dismissed with a condescending wave. Still playing the meek creature, the mage bowed her head and disappeared into the throng of actors. Most of whom were Leliana's scouts who happily volunteered to masquerade as townspeople. As discreetly as possible, they cleared a small path for the mage through the crowd. She was out of sight before anyone knew better.

\--

“So, Herald, you must be considered a beacon of hope for the Tranquil,” the Marquis began, sipping at his third glass of wine. These evening meals were becoming something of a hazard for everyone involved.

Elsie tugged at her sleeve, nodding meekly. Having come from a landed noble’s house, Elsie was more than knowledgeable about the rigid etiquette and structure of the lifestyle. Yet her time as a mage had silenced her, made her scared of outsiders. Normally, she wore her hair in a braid, all wisps tamed and kept under heel. Today, it was requested of Elsie that she free her hair from its usual constraints and let the tresses fall in warm waves of honey brown. If the Herald had chosen to mask her forehead with a curtain of hair, no one would object. To do so would be to speak out of turn. To ask to see the brand would only cause further insult. Therefore, Elsie was free of suspicion unless her forehead was exposed, of the gloves she wore removed to show a hand free of an ethereal mark.

“I am merely an exception,” she said quietly, her head bowed. She glanced over at Gaerwyn, as if pleading for help.

“Lady Trevelyan, what ails you?” Fiona leaned over, placing a hand on Elsie’s arm.

“Oh, nothing. Forgive me. The ride back to Haven was a tiring one." She smiled unsteadily, picking at her food with an extended fork.

“Tranquil." The Marquis gestured to Cullen. “Your Commander’s glass is near empty. Refill it.”

Gaerwyn stepped over to Cullen’s side, steadying a hand on top of his while she replenished the glass. The Antivan wine was a pale yellow. The liquor clogged the air with a sickeningly sweet odor that made her eyes water. The very smell was enough to mire someone in a drunken stupor.

“Thank you,” he said softly. As discreetly as he could manage, Cullen gently stroked the palm of Gaerwyn’s gloved hand. Though the intent was to comfort, she instantaneously pulled away from him as if in a fit of repulsion. If not for her trained step, the mage would have lurched back and landed in a heap on the floor.

Over the lamb roast, Cullen caught Leliana’s gaze. She glared at him, eyes smoldering with a warning.

“How is your family, “Lady Trevelyan?” the Marquis inquired.

“Ah, I haven’t spoken to them since the mage rebellion,” Elsie answered. Gaerwyn stifled her sigh of relief. She was more than thankful that Josephine insisted on drilling the young mage before she had been presented to the Marquis.

“That is a pity. Now, where did you say you had traveled back from?”

“The Fallow Mire,” Elsie responded. When Gaerwyn shot her a silencing stare, the girl’s face ran pale. “That is… there were mages in the area that we had hoped to ally ourselves with and…” There was no remedying the situation. The Marquis would have to be a fool to not catch that slip up. Among the many things he was, dolt was not one. He had played the Game for decades. He would know how to catch an inconsistency in a story.

“I see. I do so hope they were willing to join the Inquisition’s cause,” the Marquis continued, completely undeterred. “This Mark that everyone has spoken of you bearing, might I see it?”

Elsie gripped her right hand. Once again, another mistake. Her left hand, Josephine had said repeatedly. As if responding to the aristocrat’s question, the Mark began to burn with a fierce sort of malice. Gaerwyn clenched her jaw, inhaling sharply through her nose. The din of cutlery scraping over fine china managed to drown out her slight outburst.

“I would rather not,” Elsie responded. “The Mark is not some idle fancy meant to entertain during salons. The sole purpose is so that she- I can seal the Breach. Andraste gave this to me, and I will not see her gift abused.” A weak recovery, but a recovery all the same.

“My apologies,” the Marquis said, words void of sincerity. He drained the remainder of his glass. “Tranquil!” He was a rather unpleasant drunk.

\--

“The nerve of that mage!” he snarled, throwing his chamber door open. Gaerwyn slid inside. She proceeded to turn down the bed covers, the goose down comforter soft under her hands. “How dare she speak to me as if she were of a higher standing! I already have to humor the thought of this Inquisition swarming with mages, and that little bitch has the gall to speak to me in such a way!”

In a fit of rage, the Marquis grabbed up a carafe of red wine and hurled it against the wall.

“Tranquil! Clean that mess,” he ordered, shoving Gaerwyn towards the puddle of wine and glass.

Gaerwyn retrieved a rag from a hidden away bucket, wetting it with water. She pushed it through the fluid, finding that the wine was already drying into a viscous sludge.

“You know, my son said that when the mages chose to speak out of turn to their Templar betters, they would be punished,” he said seethingly. His eyes were trained on the back of Gaerwyn’s neck. “Some bitch mages tried to run from punishment. Tried hiding. It only made it worse.”

He latched a hand around Gaerwyn’s wrist, wrenching her to her feet. “You’re hurting me,” Gaerwyn stated, fighting the catch in her throat.

“Do you know how much fun they had with the Tranquil? Those who couldn't refuse or resist?” he hissed, his breath sour with alcohol.

“Please let me go.”

“Your kind should be grateful,” he snarled. “That I would even consider helping you.” His grip tightened around her wrist considerably, as if he were trying to elicit some response from the pain. Tranquil could react to an injury, take measures to avoid it, even cry if the pain overwhelmed their senses. It wasn’t the kind of weeping that most individuals would expect. It was quiet and short-lived. Gaerwyn's free hand glowed with a fire spell waiting to be cast. The Marquis need only try her patience a little more.

The door to the Marquis’s chambers swung open, and Cullen stepped inside. He probably had caught the expression of horror that lit across the aristocrat’s face, and the sudden jerky motion of him releasing Gaerwyn's wrist.

“Pardon my intrusion,” Cullen spoke with a calculated calm. “Lady Montilyet requests your presence.”

“For what, might I ask?” the Marquis inquired, plastering a smile over his lips.

“She did not specify,” he responded.

“Why not send a scout?”

“Our soldiers deserve their rest as much as their leaders do. It was hardly a chore to walk the length of a hallway.” Cullen’s voice remained cool.

“Very well,” the Marquis growled. “Tranquil. I expect a cup of tea and a plate of scones on my return.” He exited the room, glancing to the Commander. “Deal with that creature. Can hardly manage an order to clean a simple mess.” With a huff, he disappeared.

Gaerwyn sat down on the bedside, clutching her wrist to her chest. Her breath was haggard. It felt as if she might pass out on the spot. She cursed herself. She had been robbed of all instincts save for fight or flight.

“Are you alright?” Cullen asked, kneeling next to her. “Here, let me see.”

Reddish welts were already blooming over her skin.

“How long were you out there?” Gaerwyn asked.

“I heard him yelling, and I came as quickly as I could. I made out you saying that he was hurting you and I… I reacted before thinking through the options,” he said abashedly. “It isn’t sprained,” he told her. “But the bruising is rather substantial.”

“Thank you, Cullen,” she said, her voice taking on a mechanical edge. “I’m happy you were here.”

He rose to his feet, and settled down next to her on the plush bed.

“He was so cruel,” Gaerwyn whispered, her eyes trained on her lap. “He was going on about how his son would treat the mages in his care. Maker, the things he said. I feel ill. I forgot what it was like, to feel like I was some sort of base creature. As if he could do anything to me, and I would have to willingly accept what was happening.” She covered her mouth, resisting the burning impulse to vomit. “I need to clean that mess before he returns…”

“You don’t need to put up with this.” Cullen gestured to her wrist, and then to the remnants of the carafe. It looked like a pile shattered bones soaking in blood. “I can tell him that I dismissed you from waiting on him, make up a frivolous excuse that he would easily fall for.”

“Cullen, he knows you are more than my Commander,” Gaerwyn began. “That came out wrong. He saw you at dinner, when you stroked my hand. You need to be careful around him, lest rumor begins circuiting that you take advantage of your charges.”

His gaze hardened, but Gaerwyn continued. “I fear he suspects that we have an… inappropriate relationship. He’s been goading you from the beginning. What with him—“

“What would you define as an inappropriate relationship?” Cullen interjected.

“A Templar and a Tranquil. That’s hardly orthodox!” She looked at him, eyes imploring. “I don’t want to be the cause of rumors that would otherwise sully your name. He doesn’t know who I actually am to the Inquisition, but it won’t take long for him to put the pieces together."

She rose to her feet in a huff, snatching up the rag and making for the drying puddle of wine. Cullen touched her hand with his. The sensation was so gentle that the mage came close to disregarding it as a fleeting breeze.

“You still don’t care for your well being, even after he hurt you like this? You would rather think about how your interactions with others will be perceived?”

“Do you take me for a petty fool?” she asked him, her eyes locking with his. “The Inquisition needs this alliance. I…”

Cullen touched a hand to her face and placed another on her waist. “Will you continue to let him hurt you?” he asked softly. “You don’t deserve this. You have never deserved this.”

“I…” His face was mere inches from her own. She cursed herself. Of all times to be embarrassed, why now? “No.”

He nodded. “Good. I’ll send for a servant to replace you—“

“What makes you think I’ll let someone else take my place? Let another soul suffer through this same treatment?” she asked.

He stared at her incredulously. “I thought—“

“No, I’m going to make sure he learns to behave himself. Why would I subject another to his abuse? Our dear Marquis needs to be put into his place,” Gaerwyn smirked. She proffered a key from her pocket. “The Formari will sometimes enchant chests and safes and containers to prevent unwanted prying. They’ll make one key that is the only way to open a lock that is otherwise inaccessible,” she stated. “Suppose we acquire some blackmail of our own?”

“What are you…” The mage pointed to the chest at the far end of the room. The tang of enchantment burned their noses as they approached the locked container. In the right light, Cullen could see the lock pulsing with magic. “You can’t be serious,” he said in exasperation.

“I’m entirely serious,” she said. “He misplaced this yesterday, the idiot.” She inserted the key into the lock, and turned. The bolts shifted with a crisp ‘click.’ “One thing that will always evade my understanding is why individuals choose to store their banes where one can easily…” She lifted the lid, and her voice died in her throat.

“Gaerwyn, we need to let the others know,” Cullen said. “We can’t act on our own. Not like this.” His grip on the hilt of his sword tightened, as if he were about to lash out at the chest's contents.

“One moment.” Gaerwyn removed a page of parchment from the chest, unfolding it to see what had been scribbled over the page’s face. “This is bad.” She stuffed the letter into her pocket, slamming the chest shut. It clicked as the lock slid into place.

“Put the key where he can find it,” Cullen said.

“So he can access the chest later? Are you mad?”

“He’ll be more suspicious if it turns up missing when he needs it,” Cullen insisted.

Gaerwyn exhaled in exasperation. She tucked the key into one of the Marquis’s discarded evening jackets. Five in total had been strewn across the floor along with other miscellaneous articles of clothing.

“I should try to finish my work here,” she began. Cullen placed a hand on her shoulder.

“No. He’ll hardly suspect you’re on to him,” he said. “He’ll figure you opted to wander off on your own.”

She nodded. Without another word spared between the two, they departed for Leliana’s post. The Spymaster would be able to send word to Cassandra and Josephine without raising suspicion from the Marquis. They would have to work quickly.

\--

Night had fallen over Haven like a bag over a head to be sundered. Inside the Chantry, the candlelight cast a pale glow over the walls, and twisted shadows into warped figures of questionable intent.

“I’ve always loved the Chantry at night,” the Marquis murmured, glancing over at Elsie’s downcast features. “Herald, do you not also find comfort in the Maker’s presence?”

“The Maker cursed me as a babe,” she responded. “I did not ask to be tainted with magic, but I was.”

“My dear, do not speak so. To speak poorly of the Maker is to blaspheme. In a Chantry, of all places. You of all people, to worsen the insult. Why, the Herald must remain faithful to her Maker and his Bride.” He tutted loudly.

Gaerwyn peered out from the shadows, watching the Marquis’s hands. They were folded behind his back, unarmed.

“Though I do not blame you. What sort of jest are you, exactly? A Tranquil mage who possesses the ability to bring salvation to a world damned by its Creator. What chance do you think you have? Against the Elder One?”

“What are you saying?” Elsie turned to face the Marquis. She had been warned, and she had willingly volunteered to remain. Yet her features betrayed burning regret.

The Marquis withdrew an ornate dagger from a concealed sheath in his belt. He advanced on Elsie.

“The Maker cares little for us,” he stated. “The Elder One’s vision is what matters now.” He raised the blade over his head, catching the dying candlelight on the dagger’s edge. “Make peace with—“

A bolt of lightning hit him square in the back. “Back away from her, Marquis,” Gaerwyn ordered. She stepped out of the shadows, hands aglow with magic.

“You… how on earth can you. Wait—“ Gaerwyn wrenched the glove off of her left hand, revealing the Mark.

“I am the Herald of Andraste,” she stated. “And you, are nothing more than a nobleman playing at being a Bard. Doing a rather poor job at it too, I might add.” The Marquis’s hand twitched, as if he were planning to leap for his weapon. He was promptly shocked by a tendril of electricity.

“You think you can get away with this?” he hissed, clutching his side. “My guards will—“

“Already taken care of,” Cullen said, stepping into the Chantry. Behind him Iron Bull, Varric, and Blackwall appeared. They threw down the Marquis’s soldiers, all of whom had been trussed up in rope and gags. “Do you honestly believe we would be so careless?”

From the shadows, fifteen scouts emerged. The Spymaster followed, her swaying, confident gait denoted a victory over the Marquis.

“What you didn’t plan for was the Herald coming to greet you upon your arrival, evidently,” Leliana mused. “I suppose it worked in our favor.”

“Are you alright, Elsie?” Gaerwyn asked gently. She received a nod in response.

“Wait,” Elsie caught herself. She approached the fallen noble, and sent a lance of electricity through his figure. “Now I am. With all due respect, your Worship, I would rather not play your double again.”

“I would not ask it of you. You have my gratitude, my friend,” Gaerwyn said. Turning her attentions upon the Marquis, “Now, tell me who hired you.”

The Marquis scoffed. “You think I would tell you?”

“Who is this Elder One?” Her hands crackled as she drew the Fade's energy close. 

“Wouldn’t you care to know?” He smirked.

“Why were you carrying Red Lyrium in your chest? Oh, here I was forgetting the flask of magebane. Were you planning on coating your daggers in the substance? You would have killed Elsie in such a cruel fashion?”

“It was meant for you,” he snarled, gripping his weapon helplessly. “I wouldn’t have wasted my efforts on one common mage.”

“Put down your weapon, Marquis,” Leliana ordered, readying her bow.

“I will die either way,” he muttered. “It matters not.”

He launched himself at Gaerwyn, weapon poised to strike. She was too slow in calling forth magic. The blade sank into her stomach, piercing flesh and muscle. The spell warming her fingertips faded as the magebane seeped into her bloodstream. Her breathing ceased, and her thought process came to a reeling halt. A buzzing sensation roiled about her skull, like hornets in a nest.

“Bastard!” Elsie screamed. She cast an ice spell, effectively freezing the Marquis in place. “Someone, apprehend him!” She beckoned to the waiting scouts.

Gaerwyn’s vision began to blur. She touched her stomach, coming away with a hand coated in red. _Interesting,_ she thought as her vision bottomed out.

“Gaerwyn!” someone shouted. “Gaerwyn, stay with me.” Arms held her close. A hand clamped down on the stab wound, staving off the heavy blood flow. She tried to speak, but the words were like thick putty on her tongue. “Listen to me.” The voice was desperately trying to garner her attention. “Don’t fall asleep. Don’t…”

She shut her eyes to the waning light of the Chantry. The voice was silenced as her eyes swept shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Sits here and says how mean I feel for leaving this week's chapter on a cliffhanger, and provides an even ruder cliffhanger. Fights impulse to cackle evilly*
> 
> I feel awful asking for comments, but comments help me know what I'm doing right and how I can improve my writing. I really would love to know what you think of my fanfic thus far.
> 
> I'm also going to leave my tumblr user here, so that if anyone has questions, they can send them my way. I'm going to begin posting this fanfic on tumblr, and also open it up to asks and request-y story prompt thingies. My ask is open to all.  
> tumblr: thatonetrevelyan
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	14. Unbidden Affections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The concluding portion to the brief Marquis arc.
> 
> Gaerwyn awakens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Violence at a later point in the chapter.
> 
> Thank you for reading.

_Singing. A soft, lilting voice eased her entrance into the waking world. She opened her eyes to a room bathed in white. Drapes of diaphanous material were caught by the summer breeze roaming the chamber, and moved with slow and graceful flourishes. The bed she lay on was cloaked in blankets like snowy down, lacking in sensation against her bare skin._

_“You’re awake.” A voice caressed her senses. Gaerwyn slowly rose. A woman sat perched on a desk chair, her robes spattered with paint. Her hair was swept back into a loose tie, some strands falling free around her face. Like wisps of black smoke._

_“What are you painting?” Gaerwyn asked._

_The woman gestured for the child to join her. On wobbly legs, Gaerwyn made the journey to her side. The canvas depicted the image of a grand city with white washed buildings towering over a square. Near everything was gilded with gold and lions._

_“Val Royeaux,” the woman murmured. “Have you ever been there, Honeybee?”_

_“Once. Mama took me there when I was six,” Gaerwyn replied. She sat down at the painter’s side._

_“Hmm, then I think this painting needs a red-haired sprite somewhere, don’t you think?”_

_“I think it’s perfect like this,” Gaerwyn said stoutly._

_The woman laughed a laugh that sounded like bells stirred by a warm summer wind. Gaerwyn leaned her head on the woman’s arm and closed her eyes. She felt as if she were pocketed in a world, with the only two residents being her and the painter. It was so peaceful. Not the forced serenity that Tranquils embodied, but a genuine sensation of comfort and affection._

_“Elliann, did anyone get hurt?” the apprentice asked._

_“No, Honeybee.” She kissed Gaerwyn’s brow. “The other apprentices are fine.”_

_“No, Elliann. Is Cullen alright? What of Elsie?”_

_The dream seemed to grow all the more artificial with Gaerwyn’s acknowledgement of this being a mere memory._

_“I don't know,” Elliann responded, her gaze returning to the painting._

 

_“Will I wake up?” Gaerwyn rose to her feet. “Am I dead? Elliann… you’re not her.”_

_The spirit shook her head sadly. While the illusion of the room remained intact, the image of Elliann fell away to reveal a creature of ethereal light._

_“I was drawn to this memory,” the spirit murmured in a voice composed of gentle whispers. “There is so much love here. I only wished to share that with you again.”_

_“You have my gratitude, spirit,” Gaerwyn said. “It is a good memory. One which I had long forgotten.”_

_“This painting.” The spirit gestured to the blurred canvas. “What happened to it?”_

_“She painted me into the picture,” Gaerwyn replied. “Here.” She touched one point, and an image of a child holding her mother’s hand was brought into focus. Except it wasn’t her blood mother. Elliann and Gaerwyn’s oil painting counterparts stood in Val Royeaux’s square, taking in the sights. Her teacher’s finger was pointing towards a nearby statue, most likely giving the little mage a lesson in Orlesian culture. “I do not know where it is now,” Gaerwyn said. “After she died, the First Enchanter had most of her possessions removed. I managed to get away with taking her scarf, but I have little else.”_

_The spirit was silent. “Thank you for showing me this,” Gaerwyn said softly. “I’ve missed her.”_

_With that, the room blurred. Like the painting, Gaerwyn’s memory could not sustain the image beyond a few notable elements._

\--

Gaerwyn awoke in her bed. Her head and jaw ached with a sensation akin to over-imbibing in alcohol the night prior. Her stomach flared with pain when she prodded at the padded flesh with the tips of her fingers.

“Try not to push yourself.” A warm Orlesian accent washed over her. The mage looked to Mother Giselle, and smiled wanly. She placed a supportive hand against Gaerwyn’s back, easing the woman up into a sitting position.

“Have you been watching over me?” Gaerwyn inquired.

She smiled. “Only when I could convince the Commander to rest. I do not doubt he will be back within the hour.”

“Maker, I feel like my insides are burning.” She groaned.

“The magebane will take some time to leave your body,” the Chantry mother said, placing a comforting hand on the mage’s shoulder. “You are through the worst, but you should still take care. You shouldn’t push yourself in the meantime.”

There was a sudden knock on the door, followed by someone entering. “Mother Giselle, I can watch over her now—“ Cullen stopped short. Their gazes locked, and everything else seemed to fall away. His entire body shuddered with relief as his anxieties vanished.

“I shall take my leave,” Mother Giselle stated, rising from the chair set by Gaerwyn’s bedside. “Try not to do anything too strenuous until you have recovered.” The innuendo was more than obvious.

Cullen waited until the door shut behind the Mother before rushing over to the bed. He pulled the mage into a tight hug, releasing a ragged exhale against her hair. His words came out in a flurry of questions.

“How are you feeling? Do you need any water? Or your bandages changed? I can call for Adan—“

“Cullen, I’m fine.” Gaerwyn found herself laughing. “I do appreciate the attention, I assure you. It isn’t often that a strapping man waits on me hand and foot.”

“I thought I- we lost you,” he said shakily. He sat atop the stool that Mother Giselle had vacated. “There was so much blood and… Maker, you closed your eyes and I thought you were dead.”

“You’ll have to try much harder if you want to be rid of me.” Gaerwyn slipped her hand into his, balking slightly when she realized that her gloves had been removed. The Mark was so blatantly obvious. It hummed, as if resonating with the sudden physical contact. “Forgive me.” She promptly freed herself from Cullen’s touch, pushing her hands beneath the bed covers. “What happened to the Marquis?”

“He was imprisoned for the time being,” Cullen said. “His family sent a messenger yesterday that begged for his indefinite captivity. They pledged full support to our cause, and have offered to provide rations for the Inquisition forces in return.”

“They don’t want their darling Marquis back?”

“His brother has been vying for control over the family business for a while. The majority of his family also believes the Marquis to be an arse as well. They sent their sincerest apologies, and this,” he lifted up the box of chocolates sitting on her night side table.

“How Orlesian.” She grinned. She tried to swing her legs over the bedside, hissing in pain as her injury flared to life again. “I need to stop getting stabbed,” she groaned, leaning forward.

“Adan left a salve here,” Cullen began, rifling through the many bottles on a nearby table. “He said it should minimize the pain.”

“The wound reopened,” she said, pulling back her hand to see it stained red.

“I’ll get Adan— no, he’s on the other side of camp,” Cullen grumbled. “Are you comfortable with me caring for your injury?”

A smile curved Gaerwyn’s lips. “I trust you implicitly.”

The Commander nodded, a little uncertain even then. He snatched up a roll of bandages and a salve. “Where are the sutures?” Gaerwyn asked. “I don’t think the wound tore too badly, but…”

“Let me have a look.” Cullen proceeded to unbuckle the Herald’s tunic with the utmost care. He refused to turn his gaze upward whilst working, and Gaerwyn could have sworn she heard him swallow roughly when the swell of her breasts became visible. The tunic fell off of her shoulders, leaving her upper half covered only by a breast band. With one hand, she hid the fine scar resting just under her ribcage. Her skin began to prickle in the cold air.

“I’m removing the bandages,” he told her. He gently eased the cotton away from her wound. “There won’t be any need to stitch you together again,” he said, finally looking directly at her. “I… uh, I’ll apply some salve and bandage the injury, if that is acceptable.”

“Perfectly.” Gaerwyn nodded. She watched him remove his gloves, trying to stifle the sudden choking excitement climbing her throat.

His calloused fingers on her skin was a sensation unlike any other. She regretted the loss of her tunic. At least when she was covered, the flush on her chest wasn’t so obvious. His touch was tender, feathering over the injury to avoid causing more pain. It was a common sensation whenever the two embraced. Gaerwyn always expected a rough soldier to greet her in these intimate moments, only to be met with the individual who stood behind the battle standard. No longer a warrior, just a person. Somewhat awkward, but gentle. Always gentle.

“There.” He set the medicine aside, proceeding to cover the wound with a thick swath of bandages.

“Thank you, Cullen,” Gaerwyn murmured.

“Of course. Let me know if I’m hurting you,” He was focusing rather intently, she mused. “Where do you keep your clean clothing?”

“There should be a fresh tunic over there.” She gestured to a small bureau near the window. Surely enough, a patched shirt sat folded on the surface. Cullen nodded. When he had completed his handiwork, he set his attentions on retrieving the designated garb.

“I think there’s a little blood on my breast band,” Gaerwyn said, hooking her finger under the fabric to get a better look. A sudden cacophony caused her to look up. “Is everything alright?” she asked, trying to stand.

“Y-yes,” he replied. He was gripping the edge of the bureau, having tripped whilst making his way to the opposite side of the room. “Tunic. Right. Here it is.”

Gaerwyn tried to help as best as she was able, but found the lancing pain of the injury next to unbearable. The Commander was rather understanding of her situation, and was more than willing to accommodate her. After sliding the sleeves over her arms, he buckled the two halves of her tunic together.

“You’re quite good at this,” Gaerwyn said.

“I’ve had to patch up a few Templars and Mages,” he replied. The final buckle snapped into place, and he removed his hands.

“What happened after I passed out?” the mage asked.

“Some chaos ensued. Iron Bull knocked the Marquis about a bit, trying to get information about who he had been working for,” Cullen said. “Not much luck. The Marquis is many things, but a rat is not one of them. Elsie set to healing the worst of your injury and refused to leave your side until she knew you were in the clear. She has a great deal of faith in you.”

“What about you? Are you alright?”

“My work was done once the Marquis’s guards were apprehended,” he replied. “I did what I could from there.”

“You stopped the bleeding,” Gaerwyn said, not an accusation, but a statement. “Mother Giselle said that you’ve been watching over me. How long was I unconscious?”

“Four days,” Cullen replied. “The magebane was rather potent. Apparently the Marquis has a gift for poison. I stayed to ensure that you remained stable. You would have done the same.” He tried to diminish his presence in all of this, but with little success. 

“Cullen, you saved my life.”

“N-no. Elsie was the one who—“

“I cast a simple mending spell,” Elsie stated, entering the Herald’s quarters without knocking. “Apologies for the intrusion, I didn’t want to risk waking you. Here, food.”

She set a bowl of Ferelden stew on Gaerwyn’s night side table, and then supplemented the dish with a plate of bread.

“The spell was enough to close the wound temporarily,” Elsie continued. “It wasn’t enough to save you. Our esteemed Commander carried you to alchemist Adan, and sat there mixing poultices for half the night.”

Cullen’s gaze went to his hands, like a child avoiding a parent’s stare. “You would have done the same,” he repeated.

“I’ll leave the two of you to your business,” Elsie said, casting a sly smile Gaerwyn’s way. Did she wink? Gaerwyn was fairly certain she winked. When the door shut behind the mage, Gaerwyn looked back to Cullen.

“Thank you.” She reached out, placing a hand over his. The only thing hindering direct contact was the Commander’s gloves. She was starting to rather dislike those additional accessories.

She was all too aware how scarred her hand was. Over her knuckles the raised flesh was most apparent, having knit together well enough, but never mended in entirely. There were faded burns on her arms from spells gone awry, and a few miscellaneous scars on the palms of her hands. The burns from the Conclave had healed mostly, but there was some residual damage still present. Adan constantly foisted new salves on her when she departed and returned to Haven, always predicting when her supply would deplete to nothing. 

As she removed her hand, Cullen reached out to take it again. “May I?”

Hesitation. She laced her fingers through his, but refused to meet his gaze. If she had bothered, she might have seen the rather impressive blush blooming on his cheeks.

“I’m glad you’re safe,” he finally said, trying to fill the unsettled silence.

“As am I.”

The quiet fell away to admit conversation into the room. Neither noticed that the more animated their discussion became, the more time seemed to thaw and run like snow in the sunlight’s warmth. Their eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and they managed to carry on jesting and laughing with the other by the castoff light from the hearth. It was well into the night when they realized how the time had managed to slip through their fingers like sand.

“Sleep well,” Cullen said, squeezing her hand. He brought her fingers up to his lips, and for a moment, Gaerwyn was certain he would brush his lips over her scarred knuckles.

The Commander hesitated. He released her hand, and stood up brusquely. “Sweet dreams,” Gaerwyn said, trying to smother her disappointment.

She laid back in her bed, eyes fluttering closed.

\--

_She is being dragged through the tower by the roots of her hair. Her cheek is torn and bloodied, and her side is open in a gaping gash of red. She feels faint from the loss of blood, and her vision is wavering._

_**“You are meant for something so much greater, little one,”** the demon rasped, unaccustomed to the faculties of this mortal vessel. **“Your blood will rend a hole in the Veil, and more of my kind will be freed into this world. So many vessels are here, simply waiting to be occupied!”**_

_Gaerwyn didn’t respond. What vestige of her strength remained intact was being focused into the palm of her hand, crackling with electricity._

_The demon was more than aware of what the mage was scheming. In one brutish gesture, the vessel’s foot slammed down on Gaerwyn’s wrist, effectively snapping the bones and causing the magic to fizzle._

_**“Be a good little girl,”** the demon hissed, grasping Gaerwyn by the chin, **“And I’ll let you die quickly. If not… well, you’re a smart little thing, aren’t you?”**_

_“Such an awful memory,” the spirit murmured. The creature of ethereal light was out of place in this night terror. A blot of light encircled by pressing shadows. “Why is this so much stronger than the painting in the room?”_

_Gaerwyn didn’t answer. The throes of this dream were so overpowering. How could it not be real? She couldn’t breathe. She had been robbed of the capacity to even function._

_“I daren’t dwell here,” the spirit continued. “You should leave this nightmare.” With that, the ephemeral creature dissolved from that plain of existence._

_**“If you leave, sweetling, I will find you,”** the demon snarled. **“I will always find you.”**_

_Gaerwyn closed her eyes to the monstrous visage. How did this all end? She couldn’t remember. She didn’t want to. There was a sharp sensation in her shoulder. The dagger had bitten into her for a second time._

\--

She awoke with a scream. Her breathing was sharp and erratic. A lancing pain shot up from her side. Scrabbling to check the bandages, she took some small relief in finding the fraying cotton clean of blood.

With a concerted effort, Gaerwyn emerged from her bed. Her legs were unsteady beneath her body, like two fragile twigs used as weak supports. She fell to her knees, curling into a prostrate position at her bedside. Shutting her eyes to the room and muffling the sounds of the night served only to worsen her current mindset.

The pain in her side was excruciating, demanding her undivided attention. With a choked out exhale, Gaerwyn stood once more. Gingerly, she slid her coat on one arm at a time. It hurt to bend over for her boots, so she jammed her feet in instead and opted to leave the laces untouched. She forced the door open with her shoulder, and limped towards the Chantry.

\--

There was a hurried knock at Cullen’s chamber door. He was out of bed, one hand curled over the scabbard of his sword. Rarely, if ever, did anyone call on him at this hour. Occasionally, Leliana would send a scout with a message, but even she respected the social norms that would urge her to wait until morning. The rapping repeated. He pulled the door open to see Gaerwyn standing before him, shaking. She was disheveled, as if she had just fallen out of bed. Her breath was coming out in short bursts, and her eyes were bright with horror.

“Gaerwyn, what’s wrong?” Cullen shut the door behind her.

“Bad dream,” she said, clutching her throat in an effort to steady herself. “If it’s not too much to ask, may I spend the night here? I promise, it won’t become a habit. I just- I don’t want to be alone tonight. It’s silly, I know.”

The Commander nodded. “Let me help you.” He led Gaerwyn over to the bed. Under his hand, he could feel tremors coursing through her. He had her sit down while he removed her boots. The mage attempted to slide her coat off with little avail. Without hesitation, Cullen eased the outer layer of clothing off her trembling frame, folding it over one of his arms.

“Thank you, Cullen,” the mage whispered.

“Is there anything you’d like to talk about?” he asked, trying to convey comfort.

She leaned forward, balancing her elbows on her legs. Her thick auburn hair obscured her features, giving Cullen little indication of how she was feeling.

“Not right now. I’d rather just sleep,” she said, her voice a weak whisper.

“Of course.” Cullen eased himself onto the bed, lying back. He watched the steadying rise and fall of the Herald's back. “Gaerwyn.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “Please, come here,” he said gently. He held out his hand to her, finding solace when she took it without hesitation.

“I... could we…” She looked away in shame.

“What is it?”

“Could you hold me? It’s silly. You don’t have to- I mean, I don’t want you to be uncomfortable or…” She drifted off, refusing to finish her sentence.

“Gaerwyn, it’s alright.” He reached for her, cushioning her face against his hand. She slipped under the covers, pausing. Her face was mere inches from Cullen’s. He was robbed of breath then. She searched his eyes, seeking out any trace of uncertainty. Any indication that she was placing him in a distressing situation. Maker, he would declare war simply to see her smile.

He wrapped an arm around her waist, bringing her down to lay on top of him. Her chest was pressed flush to his, their breathing synchronizing the longer they lay together. Gaerwyn rested one hand over the Commander’s heart, feeling it beat against her palm. The other hand fell into the juncture of his arm and side. She laid her cheek on his collarbone, slipping into slumber without being bidden. Unlike the nights they had spent together previously, this night Gaerwyn did not speak out in her sleep to snarl at phantoms. She would murmur an odd word, here and there, but appeared otherwise undisturbed.

Cullen stroked her back, fingers tracing circles over her spine. Her features were silvered in the moonlight, skin pale and shadowed. The Sunburst brand was accentuated by that same persistent, knowing light. A pang of remorse settled in his chest, like a serpent slowly encircling itself around his diaphragm. As a Templar-in-training, the Rite of Tranquility had been explained in a fairly sanitized fashion. They were told that there was no other way when a mage posed a threat like unharnessed magic. It was supposed to be a last resort. And yet… Knight-Captain Meredith had abused the power she had over mages. Cullen didn’t know how to feel.

He adored this mage, this individual. Perhaps the Marquis saw something genuine in how he looked at the woman. Something that Cullen himself hadn’t been aware of. Why was I so enraged by him treating her so cruelly, he wondered. Of course, his mind didn’t have to wander far for an answer.

Not when that answer was so obvious. If he were to lend that confession words, what would he be risking?

\--

The morning dawned far too early. Gaerwyn awoke in a state of disorientation. This wasn't her bed. When did she move last night? She took a minute to regain her bearings, calming significantly when she recognized where she was. She lay pressed against Cullen’s toned stomach, her head resting above his heart. One of his hands was tangled into her hair, and the other rested on the small of her back. Her arms were wrapped around his torso.

In the morning light, Cullen’s hair was transmuted into spun gold. Gaerwyn grimaced at the fanciful thought. All the same, he appeared completely at peace whilst slumbering. The contours of his chest were visible against the rough spun fabric of his nightshirt, giving shape to the Commander’s musculature.

Gaerwyn unearthed one hand and traced his collarbone idly. She found the gentle sloping of the bone to be enamoring. There was a slight dent, as if signifying where a fracture had once disturbed the plain of continuity. When Cullen began to stir, she froze in her ministrations. It was a perfectly innocent and totally platonic gesture, wasn’t it? All the same, she ordered her hand to retreat.

“Morning,” he said, squinting in the sunlight. “How long have you been awake?”

“A few minutes,” she murmured, nestling into the welcoming contours of his figure.

Cullen chuckled. “Come on, we both have duties to attend to, now don’t we?”

“I refuse to acknowledge the statement,” she said, yawning loudly.

“You just did.” No response. “Come on.” He sat up, all the while working against the Herald’s resolute refusal to face the day. To emphasize her point, Gaerwyn made her body dead weight against the Commander.

“No,” she groaned. “I will not be moved.”

“Oh? How do you intend on remaining?”

In her sleep-addled haze, tickling the Commander seemed like a perfectly feasible way to declare rebellion. She did just that… and was disappointed to find he wasn’t ticklish in the least. No matter how deftly her fingers danced over his sides and played under his arms.

“Are you quite done?” Cullen tried to refrain from laughing, finding the stern edge to his tone all but lost.

“W-what…” Gaerwyn stared at him in mock horror. “How else am I supposed to retain my sovereignty? I can’t be seductive at this early of an hour!” The last part rose to a near wail.

“Well, I suppose you will have to deal with retaliation now that you have waged war. Unless you want to broker a peace treaty." He grinned.

“Over my dead body.”

The Commander sighed, running a hand through his gnarled curls. His gaze turned, and a sideways smirk curled over his lips. “I am a merciful opponent,” he said, biting the inside of his cheek to refrain from laughing.

“What does that even mean- ack!” Cullen nudged Gaerwyn slightly, surprised that she toppled onto her back with such ease. He positioned his fingers at her sides, and imitated the Herald’s initial declaration of war. In but a moment, Gaerwyn was batting his hands away and fighting the impulse to laugh. Her mouth was contorted and cheeks puffed as she tried to stifle her breathing. She was successful for about ten seconds.

The next two minutes contained the Herald’s laughter muffled by her hand curled over her mouth. She squirmed, trying to roll out of Cullen’s hold. The motion caused her shirt to ride up and rest just beneath the swell of her breasts. Cullen paused, then, his eye caught on the clean cut scar set mere centimeters under her ribcage. Tenderly, he let his fingers graze over the raised flesh.

Gaerwyn froze, finding herself surprised by Cullen’s forwardness. The rough pads of his fingers made her flesh warm. Not in an unpleasant way.

“What happened here?” he asked.

Gaerwyn locked eyes with him, astonished by the concern flooding his stare. “I was stabbed,” she replied, sitting up and readjusting her tunic. “Back when I was, oh, fourteen I think? Not a very pleasant thing to experience.” With an equally gentle touch, Gaerwyn reached out to run a thumb across the scar marking his lips. When he smirked, it gave him this sort of roguish smile. Gaerwyn mentally flogged herself for thinking in such a manner.

“Ah, got cut by a sword. It just grazed my face,” he replied. He rested a hand over hers, not in the least bit deterred by the presence of her glove. Some form of affection was lost in that layer of separating fabric, Gaerwyn found herself cursing.

The sudden knock on the chamber door broke the two from their shared reverie, sundering the intimacy of the moment and replacing it with the hurried need to prepare for the day.

“Commander!” One of Cullen’s officers addressed him through the door. “The troops are awaiting your orders.”

“Maker’s breath, man!” Cullen called back, removing his nightshirt and reaching for a fresh tunic. “Tell them to work through their training drills. I’ll be there in a half hour to supervise.”

“Understood!” the sound of retreating footsteps signified that Gaerwyn and Cullen were alone once again. Cullen turned to look at the mage, finding her face had flushed a deep red. He looked down at bare chest.

“Ah, um, you look quite… nice,” she managed to stutter.

“Ah, you’re too kind. I mean- I, uh." He lifted a hand to his face, resting a palm to the bridge of his nose.

“Well, we’ve more or less seen the other half-naked now, haven’t we?” Gaerwyn’s gaze had drifted to the side as her blush intensified.

“I suppose so.” A lapse in conversation. 

The unsettling quiet was finally broken by Gaerwyn’s soft laughter. “Why are we standing here blushing like two teenagers?” she asked him, daring to steal a glance of his face. 

\--

“I’m not entirely sure,” Cullen said, lying through his teeth. He rubbed at the back of his neck, baring his chest once more.

“I, um, should prepare. Yes! To leave. For the… mission, thing, I have to do today.” Gaerwyn pointed towards the exit. “Requisition paperwork! Right. That.”

“I wouldn’t want to detain you for any longer,” Cullen said, his voice oddly breathy. His heart was lodged squarely in his throat, beating like an unsteady drum.

“Right. Yes. Have a good day, Commander.” She opened the door, only to jar her side against the frame as she exited. She cursed quietly under her breath.

“Is your wound alright?”

“Y-yes,” she replied. “I think. I’ll have Adan look it over. A good day to you, Commander,” Gaerwyn repeated the last part rather hastily.

“You left your boots,” he called after her.

A distant echo carried her roar of frustration. She reappeared in the doorway, endeavoring not to meet his gaze.

“Don’t strain yourself,” Cullen said as she stooped over to retrieve her boots. “Here, let me.”

He knelt down, picking up the articles in question with relative ease. Turning to look up at her, he saw that her face was burning a harsh red in the morning light.

“Do you have a fever?” He placed a hand to her brow. “Adan said it wasn’t uncommon for mages under the effects of magebane to feel a bit under the weather. Maybe you should lie down? Requisitions can wait.”

“N-no, I’m fine.” She plucked her boots from his hands, avoiding direct contact by hastily withdrawing a step. “I’m sure once I start working, I’ll hardly notice.”

“Here, let me help you put your boots on.” Cullen pulled up his office chair.

“T-that’s fine, I can do it,” she insisted.

“Are you certain?”

“Of course! I mean, um, the help would be nice.”

Cullen smiled. He gestured for her to sit, which she did. He eased her boot on, tucking the fabric of her trousers into the cuff at the top.

“Aren’t you freezing?” Gaerwyn finally asked.

A prickle of cold chose to stroke one finger up his spine then. Oh, right, he had forgotten to actually don his shirt. His blush was almost on par with Gaerwyn’s fever now. Wait, was it a fever? She didn’t feel too hot when he had checked her temperature…

Upon snugly lacing her second boot, Cullen offered to help the mage stand. Hesitantly, she braced her arms against his, and was lifted to her feet.

“Ah, your jacket.” Cullen lifted the additional article of clothing off of his desk. “Let me—“

“I can manage this,” Gaerwyn assured him. She eased her arm through the first sleeve, and repeated the process with an increased amount of delicacy. “Thank you, Commander. Now, get dressed before you catch a chill.”

\--

She was finally able to depart from the Chantry without having to return for one miscellaneous item or another. Her hand went to her throat in hopes of lifting her scarf to her nose. Her fingers scrabbled over the rough fabric of her nightshirt, grasping for an accessory not present. Gaerwyn managed a sigh, a plume of warm breath unfurling from her lips. Cullen still had her scarf.

Granted, she didn’t need to have it on her person at all times, Gaerwyn was stricken by a strange sense of nudity. Here she was, fully clothed and covered, but she still felt as if she was walking bare.

“Herald.” A scout approached her. In an outstretched hand, he held a sealed missive out for the woman to receive, which she gladly did. She broke the seal with a practiced motion, finding a letter from Lady Montilyet within. A rather last-minute request for a variety of herbs was scrawled in a hurried hand. Gaerwyn had assumed she wouldn’t be leaving Haven until a sufficient quantity of lyrium had been acquired, and the mages made ready to journey to the Temple.

All the same, she found herself welcoming the prospect of being away from Haven for the time being. At least, until she had a better grasp on what had changed. Never had she felt so unsettled around Cullen. Not to say the feeling was unpleasant. Unexpected, certainly. Unwanted, she couldn’t say yet. Yet, why did she have the sudden desire to run her hands through his hair? Carelessly twirl the thick locks of gold around her fingers? She promptly berated herself for giving in to such frivolous fantasies.

“Dorian, would you care to accompany me to the Hinterlands?” the mage inquired. “Resource gathering and all that.”

The young Tevinter smirked, the edge of his well-kempt mustache curling upward. “Trying to make a quick escape?”

“Always.” She returned his wry smile. “We’ll be leaving tomorrow.”

“Are you in any condition to travel?”

“It’s a stab wound. My intestines aren’t spilling out on the snow!”

A look of revulsion crossed over his face. “Alright, have it your way. I’d be happy to tag along. I don't think it's wise, all the same. Especially when you haven't given yourself the time to heal.”

“You have my thanks. For your concern and your assistance.”

Gaerwyn prayed that the distance would give her time to think. Perhaps it was a mere infatuation? It wasn’t uncommon for mages to attach themselves to kindly Templars. She had seen it before. And yet… she had experienced infatuation. The sense of attraction from then differed from what she felt now.

With a short curse, Gaerwyn trudged back to her quarters. She needed to pack. Needed to play her lute. Needed to do anything that would soothe her troubled mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was a fun chapter. I kinda came to the realization that Gaerwyn is a stuttering mass of nervous when she recognizes she has feelings for an individual. She has a tendency to say, "Maybe, if I pretend these emotions don't exist, they'll go away!" No, no they won't. Cullen, of course, is fighting the fight of, "This would be a severely inappropriate relationship, and what if I make a mistake?" I proudly sit in the camp that believes that Cullen is a confident individual, but also stumbles a bit at the beginning of a romance. Which, of course, changes at a later point. That is my headcanon, and I respect if you think otherwise.
> 
> And, yes, Gaerwyn is being extremely careless. Her injury hasn't healed entirely, and she is under the impression that nothing could ever go wrong while she's gathering resources. Because when do things ever go wrong?
> 
> Now, comments help me know what I'm doing right and how I can improve as a writer. I'd love to hear what you think so far.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and have a lovely day!


	15. Lightning in a Bottle (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaerwyn and Cullen exchange letters while she is away.
> 
> Gaerwyn encounters a Despair Demon which has her question all of her motives. She must come to terms with the Demon, and must also come to understand the depths of her feelings for Cullen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I owe everyone two apologies.
> 
> 1\. The lateness of my posting this chapter.  
> I wasn't satisfied with what I had already written, because it left out so much. I also had to deal with two finals (both of which are now over with.)
> 
> 2\. The length of this chapter. Due to the overall length of the story, I opted to split this chapter into two parts. I intend on posting both halves today. (I am so so sorry)
> 
> I had so much ground to cover in this chapter, and so much fun as I did so. I realize that my chapters should be significantly shorter, but I always feel like I'm cheating you, my reader, if I choose to make them shorter. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!

_Lady Trevelyan,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. I…_

Cullen paused, staring down at the one sentence. This used to be so easy. He used to find such solace in writing a letter and receiving one in return. Gaerwyn’s responses had always managed to bring some measure of comfort to days brimming with tedium. Why had such a simple task become so complicated? Usually, writing a letter was a matter of informing the other of amusing incidents or providing intelligence. This was their sole form of conversation while she was away…

He dipped the writing quill into the nearby ink pot, tapping it against the rim to remove the excess. On that note, he placed the tip back to the page.

_I apologize for not being able to see you off as I have in the past. The news came so suddenly that you had departed, and a small inkling at the back of my mind had me fearing that I was the one responsible for the abruptness of your decision. If so, forgive me._

_Preparations for the journey to the temple are proceeding smoothly. Lady Montilyet has formed an alliance with a family of dwarvish miners, who, in turn, will be providing the lyrium for the endeavor. We’ll see the Breach closed yet._

_How is your wound? Please, don’t strain yourself. If you need poultices, I can ask Adan for you. He’s a gruff fellow, but wants to help in his own way. He seems rather fond of you as well. I think he mentioned he saw something of a daughter in you. I wasn’t sure if you were aware, but he seems so proud of your accomplishments._

_If you require any supplies, do not hesitate to send a request via bird. ~~I~~ We will ensure that you have what you need as soon as is possible._

_Please take care._

_-Commander Rutherford_

\--

“Maker’s breath!” Dorian sighed. “Can you be still for five minutes?” He pressed his palms into the hollows of Gaerwyn’s shoulders, easing her down onto an upturned boulder. “You can’t expect me to stop the bleeding when you’re gallivanting about in the forest.”

Gaerwyn nodded mutely. She assisted to the best of her ability as Dorian proceeded to remove her enchanter’s coat, tunic, and the supple padded leather vest resting over her bare torso. Blood was seeping through her bandages, staining the white cotton a wine red. If not for the sudden lancing pain that screamed through her abdomen, Gaerwyn would have been oblivious to the state of her injury.

“Would it have killed you to wait a week before we left?” Dorian groused at her.

She didn’t respond. Her eyes were focused on the grime collecting in the crannies of her fingernails. The Mark was humming animatedly, buzzing with the energy of the recently closed rift. It burned. One would think that the more she dabbled with closing rifts, the more accustomed she would be to the associated pain; yet the assumption had never been so far to the truth. With every mended rift, the burning intensified. As if in correlation to the pain, the adversaries that Gaerwyn and her companions were met with became all the more potent.

“Are you alright?” Dorian asked softly. His fingers were stained red from prodding and suturing her injury. “That demon we encountered. It shook you rather badly, didn’t it? You can’t let it haunt you like this. Are you listening?”

“Yes, Dorian,” she said, a mechanical tone edging her words.

“That really isn’t putting me at ease,” the mage remonstrated. “What happened?”

Gaerwyn lifted a hand to her cheek, where three scratches ran parallel down her jaw to the slight indent of her collarbone. Still bleeding, but not a wound that was as concerning as what the Marquis’s blade had left. “It knew me… knew everything about me. It said it could take my pain away. All of it.”

She looked the Tevinter straight in the eye, noting how his jovial stare had hardened into a deep set somberness. He wanted her to continue speaking. At least then she wasn’t hiding behind a shoddily built wall meant to keep her companion’s concerns at bay. While she sought for the correct words to emulate her thoughts, Dorian dipped his fingers into a balm of elfroot and spread the substance over her stab wound. The injury had clotted, but promised to reopen if pressed.

“It said that everything was inconsequential. There was no point. That the obstacles presented to me could be completely banished if I crossed into the Fade. It… told me to take my dagger and…” She released a shaky, pent-up breath. “I fought back. I didn’t give it what it wanted.”

Dorian nodded thoughtfully. “You did well,” he said, consoling her with a brief pat administered to her shoulder. Gaerwyn yelped. “Ah! Forgive me! Forgot about that nasty scratch.” Dorian released a short curse in Tevene.

“Dorian… it feels like what the demon said still lingers,” Gaerwyn began. “I have never felt so hopeless in all of my life. You must realize that I’ve been in quite a few dead-end situations at that.” Her fellow mage’s gaze drifted to the sunburst brand, and his lips fell into a thin line of anger.

“And yet, each time, you have managed to claw your way out,” he said, the conviction in his voice undeniable. “Do you want to know why I think you’ll best whatever that demon said? Whatever lingering doubts that creature left with you?” Gaerwyn raised an eyebrow, which was evidently encouragement enough for Dorian to continue. “Because you managed to overcome Tranquility, be thrown into the future and make it back in one piece, and, not to mention, you somehow befriended our rather grumpy Seeker. That’s quite the list of feats, and I’m certain I’m only scratching the surface.”

The Herald smiled wanly, yet the amusement was not reflected by her eyes.

“To top that off,” Dorian continued, “You also befriended a rather dashing mage who, I dare say, is rather cultured and gifted in the arcane arts. He’s an all around strapping bloke, I’d argue.”

For the first time in the past three hours, Gaerwyn burst into a fit of laughter. She leaned forward, her shoulders quaking with the force of her amusement.

“That’s better,” Dorian said. His mouth relaxed into a warm smile. “How about you talk with me a bit longer? It’ll take your mind off of—“

“Andraste’s tits!”

“—My suturing your injury.”

Gaerwyn released a breathy laugh, lifting one of her arms so that Dorian could gain better access to her side. The two carried a conversation to the best of their abilities, seeing as one half of the shared effort was constantly being reduced to a state of hissing vulgarities.

\--

“I can help cook dinner,” Gaerwyn said, approaching the fireside.

“You are not allowed to strain yourself! I forbid it!” Dorian said. “To your bedroll. Now.”

With a sigh, Gaerwyn dragged herself away and sat down again. She hadn’t expected Cassandra to approach her at that point in time, but the Seeker’s presence was not unwelcome either.

“Are you feeling well?” she asked.

“As well as one might expect,” the mage replied. She scratched at the bandages encircling her shoulder, cringing at the sharp pain.

“A letter arrived today for you,” she said, proffering the item in question. As the mage slid her finger under the folded page, Cassandra finished her statement by simply adding, “From Cullen.”

Gaerwyn froze in breaking the wax seal. “Would it be alright if I read this on my own?” she inquired.

“Ah, yes, of course. Pardon me.” Cassandra blustered some. She stood up abruptly and approached the fireside to examine the three haunches of goat being roasted on a spit. Varric responded to the Seeker’s presence with forced cordiality, though it was more than obvious that he was anticipating the opportunity to make a jesting comment.

With a soft smile, Gaerwyn broke the wax seal with one tapered fingernail. The contents of the letter were a comfort. She found herself lost in the fine nuances of Cullen’s handwriting. There was little denying her guilt upon reading how he had interpreted her unannounced departure.

As she rose to her feet, Dorian promptly reprimanded her for moving. “I need my lap desk,” Gaerwyn said, her voice a weak plea.

“Sit. I’ll retrieve it for you,” he said, one finger pointing to the ground. She did as was demanded, growing increasingly frustrated with the constraints being placed on her mobility. Dorian reappeared from the confines of the tent she shared with Cassandra moments later, his arms cradling the portable desk. It was a simple apparatus made of oak that contained a drawer for writing implements. A gift from Josephine -one that she insisted Gaerwyn take with her everywhere. The Lady Ambassador had insisted that it would come of use in writing reports and letters of varying formality. Gaerwyn was beginning to think there was some euphemism in Josephine’s phrasing.

“You have my thanks.” Gaerwyn smirked. Her friend set the desk down on her lap, nodding.

“Don’t strain yourself. You can either take the time for your injury to heal, or you can keep ripping it open and subject yourself to the same pain over and over again.”

“I understand,” she said, directing her word in his general direction. She turned her attentions to penning down a response.

\--

_My dear Commander:_

_I can assure you that this letter found me with all my limbs intact. Even though my travelling party is constantly running into bears. Maker, why are there so many bears?_

_You are not at fault for me taking my leave of Haven. The decision was abrupt on my part, and was spurred on by the need to get away from civilization for a time. I should be the one asking for forgiveness. It was inconsiderate to not let you know beforehand. I was under the impression that Lady Montilyet had informed you and Sister Leliana. Don’t be cross with her. I think at this point, it’s more than obvious that information is lost in transition._

_Adan thinks of me as a daughter? Truly? Well, I’m not opposed to the idea. He was rather helpful when Sera and I began to construct grenades, even if he had a tendency to hover nearby. Rather… fatherly, I suppose. To be fair, even back in the Ostwick Circle, I had a tendency to draw concern when dabbling in alchemy._

_My party encountered a Rift in the Veil shortly after arriving in the Hinterlands. Since it was in a relatively secluded area, only Leliana’s scouts had knowledge of it. They directed us to the Rift, and a battle ensued. Maker, the demons were horrifying. Perhaps it is because I’ve been groomed to fear those creatures, but it felt different this time. I’ve never encountered a demon that has induced such a deep sense of despair. I was able to mend the Veil, but I can’t say I slept well that night, or the night after. Not to mention, one of those bastards raked its claws over my back. According to Dorian, the injury will leave a sizable scar. Perhaps I’m being vain, but the thought of adding another scar to my growing collection is disconcerting._

_My wound reopened during the fight. Dorian managed to stop the bleeding, and I was forced to rest for the day. Though, I’m not certain what comfort can be drawn from that. I was careless. There was no pressure placed on me to leave so suddenly for the Hinterlands._

_I requested that a small parcel be attached to this letter. According to the Horsemaster’s daughter, these are a delicacy. I won’t lie: I may have taken one or five before sending it your way._

_I’ve rambled for quite a while now. How are you? Are you well? Please remember not to push yourself. I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing you hurt._

_Take care, Cullen._

_Hope all is well._  
_Yours,_  
_Gaerwyn_

\--

Gaerwyn’s letter arrived without hindrance. Leliana’s scout had delivered it to his room along with the attached package.

Cullen took little time to remove the parcel’s wrapping. The warm smell of shortbread overtook his senses, and a sweeping nostalgia promptly followed. Lifting one of the cookies to his lips, he paused to savor this gift. When had something so common in his upbringing become a delicacy? He bit into the cookie, chewing slowly and with relish.

Never had he thought he could long for someone’s presence as much as he did for Gaerwyn’s. …The idea that she could mean so much to him was not so strange a concept anymore. How could it be?

The thought of kissing the scars decorating her skin suddenly manifested in his mind. The scar beneath her ribcage, where she was ticklish, the scar beneath her collarbone, the one that would appear on her shoulder in time. Cullen mentally berated himself for such ludicrous fantasies. He could not give into such idle thoughts. Gaerwyn was the Herald. An agent of the Inquisition. She also hated those remnants of past battles that decorated her body. To contribute further to his list of increasing doubts, Cullen had to remind himself: although he may care for Gaerwyn as something more than another soldier, she may not care for him as something more than her Commander and friend. To force his preconceived notions onto her wouldn’t be fair; no, it would be a disservice of the most devastating sort.

Cullen hunched over his desk, placing a hand to his brow. A dull pain was slamming itself against his forehead. He may not be able to complete his response to Gaerwyn’s letter tonight. At least, not without a rolling nausea setting in by the time he opted to retire to his bed.

He withdrew a sheet of parchment paper and opened his quarter-full ink pot. There was a lapse of time when Cullen sat there, staring at the page, and feeling utterly intimidated by that blankness. Swallowing the forming lump in his throat, Cullen placed the tip of the quill to paper and drew out the initial strokes that, in turn, began to form words.

\--

_My dear Lady Trevelyan:_

_All is well. Similar to yourself, this letter found me with all limbs and fingers attached. I find myself quite thankful that no malicious developments occurred between letters. I’ve had a rather bad headache for the past few days. Forgive me if this letter is short. I want to respond promptly, but I find that staring at this page is making me feel ill._

Cullen ceased writing for the evening at this point, praying Gaerwyn would not express ill-will over receiving a late reply. 

_Adan requested that I send the attached poultice your way. He was extremely insistent. He said that it would reduce the pain and speed the healing process for your back and side._

_I am relieved to know all is well. Thank you, also, for the shortbread cookies. It’s been a while. My sister used to send me these large parcels of cookies when I was stationed at Kinloch hold. Of course, a letter was typically attached to the gift, lecturing me on not writing more regularly. To be fair, it was a bad habit of mine then._

_I don’t think I have ever heard of a demon of despair before. I spoke to Lady Vivienne, and she was also unable to provide much information about the creature. She said they were originally known as creatures of Sloth. Solas, on the other hand, said to take care around them. He said they would seek out the darkest points in ones mind, and burrow into those thoughts. They feed upon the anguish attached to those memories, and, at that point, all hope seems lost. Maker, are you alright? What happened?_

_Please be careful. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you._

_Be safe._  
_-Cullen_

\--

She couldn’t bear to break the letter’s seal the evening she received the missive. The evening turned into a day, and then two, and then a week. She longed to read Cullen’s words, but the thought of writing about the demon kept her words at bay. Her Commander had enough worries of his own. She couldn’t, in good conscience, subject him to hers. When Gaerwyn finally brought herself to review the contents of the letter, she was thrown by his concern. The initial surprise was suspended by her internal berating. Friends care, Gaerwyn snarled internally.

The Herald managed to put quill to parchment shortly after, but had to pause to recollect her thoughts for a few hours. He deserved to know what was happening. Of the people who had stood by her, had supported her, Cullen was one of the few who numbered in that small circle.

While the letter was brief in content, the fact that Gaerwyn had managed to write anything was a success in her eyes. She spent an additional two hours preparing a tea blend, and, as an afterthought, attached a small trinket to her missive.

As she approached the table piled high with requisition requests and reports from various Inquisition footholds, she was approached by Varric. 

“You alright, Herald?” he asked.

“What happened to Sparkles?” Gaerwyn returned, deflecting his initial question. While awaiting his response, the mage hid her letter under a mountain of paperwork set to be delivered to Haven come dawn.

“Too close to Sparkler.” He gestured towards Dorian. “Gotta figure out a new one for you.”

“As long as it isn’t Sunshine.” She smirked, finding her jest bordering on insult towards herself.

“What’s wrong?” Varric asked, adjusting Bianca’s perch on his back.

“It’s nothing,” she said.

“With all due respect, your worship, that is bullshit and we all know it. Come on. Let’s go for a walk.”

“There are bears though…”

“Come on.” He placed a hand on her arm, and led her away from the camp. The two walked in silence for what felt like an age in itself. Gaerwyn knew Varric was waiting for her to speak. He wouldn’t force her, nor would he sit idle while she wallowed.

“Do you remember the encounter we had… with that demon?”

“We see quite a few demons, Herald. Be a bit more specific.”

Gaerwyn knelt down by a burbling river, stirring a finger through the clear waters. “The demon of despair.”

“Ah, that one.” Varric stood at a distance, but remained attentive. “It said something to you, didn’t it?”

“It said a lot of things,” she murmured. “Much of which I would rather forget.”

She propped her arm over her knee, her gaze never wavering from the twisting current. “It said that the Inquisition was a lost cause. It said that with all the pain I had experienced, wasn’t it time that I laid down my arms and gave up? It said it could relieve me of my pain. There were visions too… Maker, the visions.”

Varric was silent. He joined her on the riverbank.

“I saw Haven burning. I saw Redcliffe again. Except the all mages, the Inquisition forces, everyone was dead. It showed me the Conclave, and Samahl and Tristan and… everyone. That demon… it showed me everything that it knew would break me. I’ve been trying to remain strong since. I don’t need to add my personal burden to the Inquisition or anyone else. It would be selfish of me.”

“You aren’t the only person who thinks like that. Not much I can say will help, but I don’t think it’s uncommon for survivors to feel guilt over, well… surviving. How much have you lived through, exactly?”

“It begins to blur at one point,” she whispered.

The dwarf wrapped a corded arm around her.

“Varric, I haven’t said this before because I’ve been arguing against it. But… I think I’m broken. I can’t do this…”

“Listen here,” Varric said, his voice turning stern. “You are not broken. You may not believe me, and that’s your call, but you’ll be believing a lie. I struggle to think that anyone who has gone through as much shit as you have would get out untouched. People aren’t invincible. Peel away the exterior: the scars, the skin, the well placed defenses, and you see heartbreak and sadness and flaws that they’d rather not let anyone else see. That doesn't make them broken. Perhaps not whole, but definitely not broken. That’s not to diminish what you have experienced, and if it sounds like that, please understand that I don’t mean it that way.”

“Is there some grand meaning to this, Varric?” she asked, somewhat tetchily.

“Yes! Even after all of that, you have still managed to maintain your humanity! You still find joy in the small things. Someone embracing you has you smiling for the rest of the day. A good meal or a well-placed ‘are-you-doing-alright?’ has you walking on air.” He stood up. “Why do you fight, Herald?”

“I… There are people who need to be protected. So many lives hang in the balance. I can’t turn my back on them.”

“Even when some of those people hurt you?”

“I can’t say I’m fond of them. Atrocities have been committed against me and others. But it isn’t my place to judge or decide their fates. I refuse to become what they are,” she said, her voice gradually gaining in conviction.

Varric smiled. He rose to his feet and offered Gaerwyn his hand. “Reach deep down into your heart and you will find many reasons to fight. Survival. Honor. Glory. But what about those who feel instead duty to protect the innocent? There you will find a warrior savage enough to match any dragon. And in the end they will retain what the others won't... their humanity.” He smiled up at the human. “You aren’t broken. You’re allowed to hurt and cry. You’re not allowed to tell others that they can’t. You aren’t allowed to belittle another person’s pain. And you don’t. You never have.” He paused. “You aren’t broken. You are flawed. You are scared. And you are still healing. But you aren't broken,” he said, the note of finality in his voice absolute.

Heat gathered behind Gaerwyn’s eyes. She brought a hand up to her face, swallowing back the sob bulging in her throat. Tears began to course down her face in steady streams, much to her shame.

“I’m here,” Varric said. “If you need me. I’m here.” He held his arms open, ready to embrace the human. She hesitated, finally coming to her knees and accepting the gesture. After a drawn out half hour, she finally pulled away.

“How about Lightning?” he asked.

“Lightning?” 

“For your nickname.” He clarified.

“Why?”

“A sudden brilliant display of light that leaves an impact wherever it goes,” he said, as if the reasoning behind the name was obvious.

“A harmful one…”

“You ever seen what lightning does to sand?” Varric asked.

“No…”

“It turns the sand into glass. Some seriously beautiful shapes and forms. You do that. You give shape to something that seems otherwise purposeless. You think it works?”

“I believe so. A bit conceited but… I like it.”

“Alright then. Come on, Lightning, let’s get back to camp.”

“Thank you, Varric. For everything.” She hastily wiped at her eyes.

“It’s what I’m here for.” He cast a sidelong grin her way, and led the way back to camp. They were greeted by an irritable Cassandra, who demanded to know where the two had gone. Varric brushed off the Seeker’s interrogation with a two-word answer, and retreated into his tent.

“What happened?” Cassandra asked.

“We had a conversation,” Gaerwyn replied. “Good evening, Cassandra.”

From outside the tent, the mage could hear Cassandra release one of her famous disgusted sighs. Gaerwyn bit down on her lip to stifle a laugh. She felt lighter, stronger, not whole, but not broken.

\--

_Cullen:_

_Please forgive my late response._

_I’ve attached a tea blend with this letter. I hope it helps. I also found this adorable nug totem. Attached that too._

_The poultice has worked wonders. The stab wound has almost completely healed, much to my relief. Taking additional precautions was becoming a hassle._

_As far as physically speaking, I’m in relatively fair condition. The Despair demon left me feeling quite shaken. It spoke to me. With every word the creature uttered, I began to feel all the more hopeless. It said it could rid me of that pain. The demon seemed to know everything about me. The Rite of Tranquility, Samahl, Tristan... everything. I banished it to the Fade, fortunately. To be honest, I’m still scared. I haven’t been able to sleep well, and when the fire dies down and the darkness begins pressing in, I feel frozen in terror._

_Forgive me for going on like this. The threat is gone. I’ll be alright. Varric has been a comfort. Whenever those terrors grip me, he's there ready to read to me or carry some nonsensical conversation._

_If I might ask, has Lady Montilyet managed to acquire any information about Samahl’s clan? Or Tristan’s family?_

_Please take care. I miss you._

_Yours,_  
_Gaerwyn_

_P.S. Actually… things are much better now. Significantly, I might say. I’m still a bit shaky, but for the first time in a while, I think I’ll be able to make it._

\--

The post-script had been written in a different shade of ink, Cullen noted. Evidently Gaerwyn had picked up her thoughts at a later point. Had she written that to avoid worrying him?

He set the letter aside, and removed the nug totem from its wrappings. He turned it over in his hand with some amusement, but more so bafflement. What had possessed her to send him such a miscellaneous trinket? It wasn’t that Cullen didn’t appreciate the sentiment –he did. All the same, this was the sort of gift he’d expect the Herald to send to Leliana.

He lifted a small wooden box out of a desk drawer, setting it on a sizable pile of reports. In the past few months, the contents of the box had increased. Mostly letters. Most of which were from Gaerwyn. When he lifted the lid, the scent of elfroot, embrium, and lavender wafted up from the folded pages. He placed the newest missive atop the neatly organized pile, and eased the nug totem into the small space between the walls of parchment and wood.

Maker, how he missed her. With a sigh, Cullen sat down at his desk. So many reports still needed to be filed… they could wait.

\--

_Dear Gaerwyn:_

_I won’t lie and say your last letter wasn’t concerning. Please make it back safely. Have you set a time for your return as of yet?_

_The nug totem was certainly… an interesting gift to receive. I appreciate the thought, but I don’t think I ever expected to be given such a strange item. All the same, you have my thanks._

_Lady Montilyet has said that Samahl’s clan is now speaking with the scouts, but they still have reservations about placing their trust in the Inquisition. They seem to believe that the prayer amulet belonged to Samahl. I do not know if they believe your claim of being her friend though. Lady Montilyet is still seeking out information on Tristan’s relations. So far, she’s turned up only dead ends. He was a rather elusive fellow._

_I know that very little I say can change how you feel right now. Just know that I believe you are stronger than any demon. You resisted the Despair demon’s pull. How is that not proof enough of your strength? If you need anything, let me know._

Josephine knocked on the Commander’s chamber door, entering with a wrapped package held reverently in her arms. She placed it on Cullen’s desk and brought a finger to her lips

“I will have your hide if you open this, Commander. Send it to Lady Trevelyan, untouched. A good evening to you.” She left without ceremony, the door careening shut behind her.

_For now, Lady Montilyet asked me to attach the following parcel to my letter. She made me swear on my life not to open it. What is it?_

_I miss you as well. Take care, and be safe._

_Yours,  
Cullen_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What Varric says to Gaerwyn was inspired by this video that used some deleted dialogue from Dragon Age 2:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U5hWjqOXc3g
> 
> I really enjoyed writing this chapter. I mean, I enjoy writing this story, but I enjoyed it even more so with this chapter. This chapter was originally supposed to be solely composed of letters between Gaerwyn and Cullen, but as I was reviewing it, I realized that if I didn't focus on what was occurring in between each letter, I would be committing a huge disservice.
> 
> Comments give me life, and help me know what I'm doing right and what I can improve on. I would love to know what you think of this story thus far.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	16. Lightning in a Bottle (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaerwyn and Cullen continue to exchange letters while Gaerwyn is away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!

A doll. To be more specific: a stuffed rabbit sewn from black velvet. Gaerwyn examined the seams connecting the legs and arms, finding the expert craftsmanship to be worn and loose at certain points. It was a well-loved toy.

Lady Montilyet had been brief, and threatening, in her letter to the Herald. She attempted to extract a vow of silence from Gaerwyn, but probably wasn't expecting one, all the same. It was a beautiful gift and more needed than Gaerwyn may ever have indicated. Never in her life did she think that sleeping with a doll would hold any allure. Yet simply holding the creature provided her with a small source of comfort. She would have to thank Josephine upon her return. Chances were that the Lady Ambassdor would prefer such an arrangement, and not one conveyed via letter- especially when there was always the possibility that a messenger bird may be intercepted,

With some reverence, Gaerwyn tucked the toy rabbit into her pack. She exited the tent to be greeted by Varric. He clutched a worn pile of papers in one hand, much of which had been marked up with red ink.

“My editor returned my manuscript,” he explained when Gaerwyn cast an inquisitive stare his way. “How are you this morning, Lightning?”

“Better,” she said with a wan smile.

“I have a question for you, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh?”

Varric smirked. He fell into step with the Herald as they approached the requisition table. Gaerwyn dropped her letter atop the growing pile, opting to not take the necessary precautions to maintain some modicum of discretion. "Why did we leave Haven so abruptly? Usually you give us three days notice if we're to accompany you."

Gaerwyn exhaled. “Unbidden affections,” she stated.

“Oh? Is someone courting our dear Herald?” Varric raised an eyebrow. Gaerwyn could have sworn that she could see him formulating the plot for a new story. She pushed the niggling concern away. How conceited could she be, to think she would ever have a story written about her? Maker, she’d just be happy to get out of this war effort alive.

“Oh, no. These are my emotions, not his,” she replied.

“That would be to the best of your knowledge, at least. I assume you’re speaking about Curly—“

“How did you even—“

“The soulful stares that you share aren’t evidence enough?” Varric chuckled. “Or those late night visits?”

“I beg your forgiveness for choosing the most direct way to reach the Chantry. Maker, nothing happened, Varric.”

“That much is obvious.”

Gaerwyn released an exasperated sigh. “I have never felt like this. It scares me. I needed the time to just… understand what it all means.”

Varric was silent. “I hope you find your answer,” he said finally. “Though, I have a feeling I know how this conflict will pan out. If you could even manage to call it a conflict with a straight face.”

“Care to enlighten me?”

“No. I don’t enjoy spoiling stories for others.” He gave her a halfhearted shrug. “Guess you’ll just have to find out for yourself.”

Varric took his leave then, bowing his head with some playful exaggeration.

\--

Gaerwyn and Cassandra chose to bathe in a spring close to camp. It wasn’t being used as a water source, so neither were met with opposition.

After removing her tunic, Gaerwyn entered the pool with some trepidation. A steady life of camping meant that bathing was reduced to a weekly ritual. Even when the opportunity presented itself, Gaerwyn found it disconcerting to drop her guard when out in the open. A bandit or incensed bear may appear out of nowhere. To make matters worse, the water was cold and sometimes there were bugs. The small luxuries contingent with living indoors for most of her life did not go unwanted.

“You’ve been rather quiet lately,” Cassandra mused from her side of the spring. The cold water hardly affected the seasoned Seeker, much to Gaerwyn’s chagrin. “It’s uncommon, to say the very least. Are you well?”

“I’ve been spending the last few days thinking,” she replied. Gaerwyn's teeth were chattering, try as she may to acclimate to the water's temperature. “While the Hinterlands aren’t exactly the most peaceful of places, given the circumstances, my thoughts have begun wandering.”

“Back to the demon?” Cassandra asked.

Gaerwyn slipped under the water, submerging herself fully. She resurfaced, auburn hair now sleek and clinging to her neck and shoulders. “Sometimes. I’ve been concerned with gathering my thoughts, mostly. I’ve never been particularly gifted at discerning how I feel, and after being made Tranquil, my emotions have become all the more baffling. Having the space to think helps.”

She retrieved a chunk of hard soap from her pack, and then proceeded to clean off the grime coating her skin. A shiver coursed down Gaerwyn’s spine, raising gooseflesh in its wake.

“We should think of returning to Haven,” Cassandra said.

Gaerwyn jolted to a halt, soap poised over one arm. She didn't doubt that the Seeker observed the mage acting out of place.

“Do you not wish to return?” she inquired.

“No, I do,” Gaerwyn replied, perhaps a bit too quickly. “Do we have enough elfroot? What about blood lotus?”

“We have enough elfroot to see us through whatever may come,” Cassandra replied, smirking. “We could leave in two days time. Unless… you’re avoiding something back in Haven?”

“No, no, I’m not avoiding anyone- damn it, Cassandra!” Gaerwyn splashed a plume of water in the woman’s direction. "I realize you have a gift for interrogation. To use it on me though? Of all people?" The Seeker's features remained impassive.

“Well, I’m done here. I’ll leave you to your thoughts, Herald.” Cassandra waded over to the edge of the spring, grasping up her tunic and trousers. She dressed quickly and made her way back to camp, leaving Gaerwyn alone.

The mage closed her eyes, lifting her feet away from the silt and loose pebbles, and laying back to float at an unhurried pace. She stared up at the tree cover, enchanted by the branches swaying in the wind. Sound was muffled by the water framing her head, leaving only the echoing warble of her eardrums as company. She closed her eyes and folded her hands over her stomach.

She missed his laugh. His easy, nervous, warm chuckle that settled in her chest. He always seemed so uncertain when the need to laugh gripped him, as if for fear that his amusement would cause insult. That had changed around her, she noticed. Near everything that fell from her lips was meant to elicit a laugh from the man. The ways his eyes lit up when he smiled always drew a blush to her cheeks. More so now than in the past.

Was she really having these thoughts? Gaerwyn made to rise into a sitting position, and promptly lost all buoyancy. She sank like a rock, only to scrabble about, reaching for some form of purchase. She managed to ease into a small niche formed by years of water running over the stone.

She slid a hand under the hair obscuring her vision, and smoothed it back so that her forehead was bare. Drawing her hand away, she grimaced at the gash of pale green light dancing over her palm. The skin beneath was intact, though it was cast in an eerie luminosity under the Mark's pall. Cullen didn’t see the Mark when he looked at her, that much she knew. The short conversation they had shared prior to her departing for Redcliffe was still crisp in her mind. As was the relief that flooded through his body when she had not spurned him after learning of his withdrawal symptoms. How could she? He was still the Commander she had met and befriended.

What of when she had finally resurfaced from the magebane’s influence? He was elated to see that she had pulled through. Gaerwyn could hardly deny the yearning to seek him out after awakening either. She wanted to be near to him. She craved the closeness they shared. Was that wrong? What did that mean? The mage found her mind mired by her racing thoughts. The answer was obvious. After a friendship that had persevered through months of her departure and abrupt reappearances, Gaerwyn was certain that her attachment to the Commander was much more than infatuation. While that may have frightened her some weeks earlier, the thought now set her mind at ease.

She missed his hand stroking the side of her face. Regardless of if that touch was always hindered by a glove. She couldn’t recall a time where their two bare hands had met. How annoying, she internally groused.

Gaerwyn slipped down from her perch and waded to the edge of the spring. The air rested against her body like a second skin. After slipping her tunic over her head and tugging it down, the mage made her way back to camp. The trip to the Hinterlands was rather rewarding, she mused. There was little point in hiding her contentment. She finally understood.

\--

_Cullen,_

_Thank you. For everything. This letter is probably arriving later than what is typically usual, since I had a courier deliver it._

_Lady Montilyet attached a missive to the parcel, saying that if I were to inform you of its contents, it would be on pain of treason. I mean, IT ISn’t As if i could coDe an answer withOut being caught by our ambassador or nightingaLe. How silLy would that be? I certainly hope they don’t read our letters. That would be a CAPITAL offense, in my humble opinion._

_The nights are getting easier. I chose to sleep outside for the past three days, and found it the open air to be a boon. Even in the darkness, there is starlight. Silly, I know._

_I feel like I’ve trekked through these valleys far too many times to count. We gathered enough resources to last the Inquisition through the next four months or so. I expect to return sometime in the next two weeks, if not sooner._

_I miss being able to converse with you in person. Letters are fine, but they grow frustrating. I suppose I hate waiting for a reply. I’m impatient._

_How are things back in Haven? Have the recruits improved? I hope they aren’t causing too much trouble (or just enough to keep you on your toes.)_

_I’ve been meaning to ask, do you still have my scarf? I don’t need it back just yet. I just wanted to make sure it is in safe hands._

_Yours,  
Gaerwyn._

_P.S. I did leave Haven suddenly. I suppose I needed to sort my thoughts out, and I didn’t want to drag anyone into my personal nonsense. I think I’ve managed to come to an understanding with myself._

_P.P.S. Attached are two bears furs. One is for me. I need a warmer blanket for my quarters. The other is yours. Your quarters are far too chilly. A Chantry is supposed to be warm and welcoming place, for Maker’s sake._

\--

“Make sure that this is handled with care,” Cullen told Leliana’s scout, handing over a small parcel padded at least five times over with various soft material and tightly cinched in place with twine. The Commander briefly considered that Gaerwyn may have to toil with the packaging more than was necessary. Best to have too much than risk a broken gift, he concluded.

With the gift, he placed a sealed letter. Gaerwyn’s name had been written in a bold hand on the front. Just her first name. No surname or rank to preface or follow. At this point, their letters had reached a level of informality that led Cullen to believe it was unnecessary.

“Make sure the Herald receives this without delay,” he said. The scout was dismissed with his response to Gaerwyn, one which he was apprehensive to send. Perhaps he was too forward to send the gift. It was a simple bauble that he had bought off a visiting merchant. Of course, she deserved so much more than a trinket. For now though, it was all he could give. Perhaps there was a day when he could offer more. Maker, why was he thinking like this?

His fingers were stained with ink from the letter he had completed not but ten minutes prior. He lifted the beeswax candle up, snuffing the flame with one breath.

\--

_Dearest Gaerwyn:_

_I hope that everything is well. I am curious as to what this understanding with yourself led to, but I will not pry._

_Lady Montilyet asked that I inform you that we received a letter from Samahl’s clan. They will be travelling to Haven, and we expect to see them in about two months. Apparently, they were situated in the outreaches of the Free Marches._

_I miss you. There isn’t a simpler way to say it. This is the longest you’ve been away from Haven, and I keep expecting to see you in the tavern in the evening with Bull and Sera. Or, perhaps, playing your lute by the fireside while Varric writes nearby. I realize that a routine is a dangerous thing to fall into, especially given our circumstances. All the same, I miss you._

_If you wish to discuss what happened with the Despair demon in person, I am here. Otherwise, I will not pry. I respect your privacy._

_The Inquisition recruits have a penchant for keeping me on my feet at all hours. Honestly! As a whole, they have improved beyond what I could have foreseen. One vital aspect of life as a soldier are the connections one makes with fellow comrades. Our soldiers all have adopted a persona of a large, rowdy family. A night doesn’t go by where they don’t squabble, make amends, and then go back to laughing. I suppose it is conceited of me, but I am proud to see how much they have grown. Not just as individuals, but as a community._

_Yes, I still have your scarf. Forgive me. I keep forgetting to return it to you. It’s safe with me, I promise you._

_The bear fur was necessary, I concede to that point. My sleep is much warmer now. Thank you._

_I attached a small gift. I hope it wasn’t too forward to do so._

_Yours,_  
_Cullen._

\--

Gaerwyn handed off the short missive to the scout. She took one last look at camp, ensuring she had not left anything of worth behind. No doubt one of the soldiers who manned that point would send it back to Haven, but she would rather not submit to such careless actions.

“Ready?” Dorian asked, approaching the Herald.

She patted the small pack belted to her side, feeling the familiar contours of one item in particular.

“Yes,” she replied, a genuine smiling reaching her eyes. “I think it’s time to go back. We can’t keep them waiting, now can we?”

“Well, we could certainly keep the Inquisition waiting, but the Breach and the demons pouring out of it at a rather concerning rate? I don’t think it would be conducive by any measure to prolong dealing with that,” he returned, his smirk gradually becoming all the more pronounced.

The two shared a laugh. It was cut short by Cassandra barking at the mages. Chastened, the two mounted their respective steeds and made for the Imperial Highway. Though the highway was wrought with bandits, it lacked as many detours as other paths did. With the Inquisition having secured the highway as well, the threat of an ambush was rather lacking.

As the horses fell into a steady, constant canter, Gaerwyn opened her pack and withdrew the item from within. An orb made of polished black stone, painted to look like the night sky. According to Cullen, the globe was referred to as a Skyball. She was enamored with the gift. The artisan who crafted the object had gone to such pains as to actually paint constellations. _Even in the darkness, there is starlight._

Gaerwyn cradled the gift in her hands. She drew some courage from Cullen’s gesture. Perhaps proclaiming her affections for the man would not be met with the response that she dreaded. Rejection was a harsh reality. Yet if that happened, she would have to accept it. The value she placed in their friendship would not diminish if Cullen did not return her affections.

\--

_Cullen:_

_I’ll be home in three days time. Sending this letter ahead to inform you and the others._

_See you soon._

_Yours,_  
_Gaerwyn._

_P.S. Thank you for the gift. It’s lovely._

\--

The approaching hoof beats heralded Gaerwyn’s return. While trying to appear as nonchalant as possible, Cullen sped his way towards the stables. She was laughing and joking with Varric and Dorian. Her hair was a mass of tangles from the journey back, framing her face in thick, curly gnarls.

“Herald.” He greeted her with a slight incline of his head. She looked up, her eyes warming with the sight of him. Cullen steadied her as she slid off her mount, keeping his hands on her waist while she regained her footing.

“Come now, try not to look so stricken in front of everyone.” Dorian laughed. He and Varric busied themselves in discussion, trying not to seem overly interested in what was conspiring between the Commander and Herald.

Evening was falling, and the night chill was settling in. The sky was tinged with dulcet pinks and dusky reds. In a certain angle, Gaerwyn seemed to glow in the dying sunlight.

“Would you care to go for a walk, my lady?” Cullen inquired. “Of course, if you would rather rest—“

She looped her arm around his, leaning into him. “I missed you,” she said softly. It was different when the words were spoken. While the two had exchanged that three word sentence countless times in the past few months, never had they given the sentiment voice. Cullen felt heat rising to his cheeks, but tried not to draw attention to himself.

The two made for the wooded area just outside of the small town, at ease with their surroundings and each other. When completely out of sight, Cullen turned to Gaerwyn. He lifted her off her feet, pulling her into a warm embrace. She looped her arms around his neck, whilst resisting the impulse to laugh.

\--

“I missed you too,” he murmured. They remained interlocked in the other’s arms for an unmarked stint. It was in this time that they reacquainted themselves with the other's small idiosyncrasies. Gaerwyn’s easy smile. The way her eyes lit up. The way she breathed against him. Or how she sought out his warmth. Or how Cullen would make eye contact and look away just as quickly. How easily he blushed. The warm greenish-gold of his eyes. The rough stubble that shaped his jaw line. How he held her so closely.

“In your letters, you mentioned that you come to terms with something. May I ask what that was?” Cullen asked, finally easing her back to the ground. His arms remained loosely encircled about her center

“Ah… well, yes. I mean.” She crossed her arms and swerved her gaze to the side. “Cullen, I care for you and…” she couldn’t find the words to match her affections. With a sigh, she resigned herself to failure.

“What’s wrong?” Cullen asked. He placed a hand on her arm.

“You left the Templars, but do you trust mages? Could you think of me as anything more?” Everything was coming out in a jumble, but there was no turning back.

“I could,” he said slowly, picking his phrasing with care. “I mean, I do… think of you. And what I might say in this sort of situation.”

“What’s stopping you?” She looked up, forcing herself to lock gazes with him.

“You’re the Herald. We’re at war. And… I didn’t think it was possible.” They were both walking into territory that neither was accustomed to. Maker, fighting a war seemed easier than confessing how she felt.

“And yet I’m still here,” she responded with a small shrug.

“So you are… it seems to much to ask, but I want to—“ He lifted a hand to caress the side of her face, leaning forward and closing the gap between them. She moved into his touch, eyes closing and lips parting. His nose nudged against hers, causing Gaerwyn to shift ever so slightly.

“Commander! Herald!” Jim entered the clearing, setting the two on edge at a second’s notice. They parted, looking away from the other. “Sister Leliana and Lady Montilyet are asking for the two of you.”

Cullen’s glare was enough of a dismissal for Jim. If he couldn’t figure out why the Commander had come to dislike him so passionately, then, well, the scout was rather dense.

“I should go,” Gaerwyn said softly. “I’ll meet you in the Chantry.” With that, she darted out of the clearing, one hand covering her mouth. She didn’t look back. Maker, how embarrassing was this! With her heart on her sleeve, she had more or less confessed to the man that she wanted something more from the relationship they shared. Yet, here she was, racing in the opposite direction. In a show of utter cowardice.

\--

Cullen blinked. Maker, damn that scout! Leliana probably kept him around just to interfere. He was bloody good at it too, Cullen cursed internally.

He watched Gaerwyn stride out of the wooded area and make for Haven.

“Gaerwyn!” he called after her. She paused.

“We shouldn’t delay. I don’t think it’s wise to keep them waiting,” she said. “Shall we?”

Cullen quickened his pace to meet her. The two proceeded in silence to the Chantry, gazes never quite meeting the others.

“The gift was beautiful,” Gaerwyn said, as they crossed the Chantry’s threshold. “Thank you.”

“I-I’m glad you liked it,” he replied.

All other conversation was cut off by the sight of Leliana and Josephine loitering outside the War Room. Gaerwyn rushed to meet Lady Montilyet halfway, clasping the woman's hands in her own.

“Samahl’s clan have agreed then?” she asked.

“Yes, your Worship,” Josephine replied breathlessly. “Two of Tristan’s friend also responded to my inquiry. They are traveling to Haven as we speak.”

“Thank you.” The mage chose to forgo social propriety then and embraced her. Josephine met the gesture with all the grace a woman of her station would be endowed with. Not to say that there wasn’t sincerity in the Lady Ambassador’s response. She held the Herald as she would a beloved friend of many years.

“Now, I realize you are exhausted, but there are a few things we must discuss before night’s end,” Josephine stated, releasing the Herald. “Shall we?”

The meeting was surprisingly light. Within the hour, they adjourned and retired for the evening. Although Cullen wanted to pursue his conversation with Gaerwyn, the mage was swept up by the Lady Ambassador and ushered away to discuss one matter or another.

\--

He wasn’t able to speak with the Herald the following day. Gaerwyn had been pulled into various meetings with nobles who were throwing in their lot with the Inquisition, and he spent much of the day drilling the Inquisition recruits. Though, at this juncture, referring to them as recruits bordered on insult.

When the sun was falling into the waiting arms of the Frostbacks, Cullen dismissed those under his command. He turned to ascend the steps leading into Haven, only to pause. The Herald of Andraste leaned against one of the pillars marking the entrance into town. She was watching the soldiers train, evidently.

“You’ve done well with the recruits,” she said, approaching the Commander. “To think that they’ve come so far in such a short time is incredible.”

“Ah, thank you.” He rubbed the back of his neck abashedly.

“Cullen.” Gaerwyn placed a gloved hand on his arm. “How are you?”

“I- um, ah- would you like to go for a walk?” he asked, his words coming out in a fumble.

“Are you certain? The news around Haven is that a blizzard is on the horizon,” the mage said, already reaching for his hand.

“We have time,” he insisted.

“Alright. Fifty silver if it arrives before we make it back.”

“I’ll take that bet.”

He offered her his arm, and she looped hers around it. They made for the path hidden away by the nearby thicket. As always, their evening promenades were taken with the leisure that their stations rarely permitted.

“Varric settled on my nickname,” Gaerwyn began.

“Oh? Hopefully it’s more creative than Curly.” Cullen smiled down at the woman. He swerved his eyes forward when she attempted to meet his gaze. Maker, he was already blushing.

“Curly is so fitting though! Now, he chose to change mine because Dorian and I had too similar of nicknames…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Painted Skyball was a gift that you could give to one of your companions in Dragon Age: Origins. The text used to actually describe the Skyball in this fanfic was borrowed (somewhat) from the in-game description provided for the gift. I remember finding it and being like, "I want one. How is this labeled as a miscellaneous gift?! Really?! HOW DO THEY NOT SEE THE AMAZING WHICH IS THE SKYBALL?"
> 
> I opted to split this chapter into two part, because the end result of this chapter, as a whole, was twenty-three pages. That just seems really hard to read all in one place. So this is the continuation of the second chapter.
> 
> Also: the coded message to Cullen was "It's a doll." That was not the result of bad editing. Just me feeling overly obnoxious at the WRONG time.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	17. Two Hands Touching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and Gaerwyn seek shelter from a raging blizzard.
> 
> Slightly NSFW

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO. This chapter may be considered slightly NSFW. I don't really know, but I don't want anyone to lose their job or something of that variety.
> 
> Also: I am pushing my posting day to Thursday. My weeks are usually hectic at the start, so it would be significantly easier for me, as a writer, to post on Thursdays.
> 
> Thank you for reading!

Gaerwyn released a shriek of delight as she threw another snowball in Cullen’s direction. It missed, fragmenting against the rock formation behind him. With a curse, the mage ducked behind a tree to shape a new projectile. She had boasted that she could defeat Cullen in a snowball fight without the use of her magic, and he had challenged her, in turn, to battle by those terms. The odds were more evenly matched now.

Having formed three new snowballs, Gaerwyn stepped out from her cover, somewhat taken aback by what awaited her. Her Commander was nowhere to be seen. There was a sudden rustling in the frost dusted brush nearby, and she reacted by hurling a snowy missile at the movement. A fennec burst out of the foliage, making a mad dash for its den.

For a moment, Gaerwyn considered the chance that Cullen might have returned to Haven without her. That would leave the mage alone to wage war on an adversary that had already left the field. An amusing jape, if not an insensitive one, Gaerwyn thought. A snowball broke against her shoulder, sending a shiver of exhilaration up her spine. She whirled about and sent her second missile flying. It hit Cullen squarely in the chest. With a victory cry, she threw her final snowball, which glanced off his arm.

As she made to duck behind cover again, Cullen launched his attack. Five snowballs hit her consecutively, all making square contact with her chest. Evidently, he had hidden away to restock projectiles. With an exaggerated dying gasp, Gaerwyn crumpled to the ground. She heard Cullen chuckling. He approached her with a calculated step. He knelt down beside her and placed a hand against her neck, “checking” for a pulse. She lunged forward, latching onto his breastplate. With a concerted effort, she reversed their positions, with him lying on the snowy turf and her leaning over him.

They shared a drawn out stare, their breaths heavy and colored white by frost. The laughter came easily. Gaerwyn laid down beside him, hardly perturbed by the chill settling against her back.

“Cullen,” she said.

“Hm?”

She slammed a shoddily formed snowball against his shoulder, grinning playfully when he looked at her in mock horror. “We had called a truce, my lady. How could you?”

The mage shrugged. “I fear that not being able to use magic has made me resort to dirty tactics.”

“You fight dirty with or without magic,” Cullen returned. He rolled onto his side, propping his head on one hand.

“You fight honorably. With or without a blade,” she replied. She reached up to tuck a curling lock of hair behind his ear. “You might be mad.”

“Perhaps.” A cold blast of air hit the two. Gaerwyn pulled herself into a sitting position, her legs crossed and arms folded over her knees. She hadn’t paid any heed to the change in weather. The wind was whipping through the trees and kicking up dusty plumes of snow.

“We should find shelter,” she said, offering a hand to Cullen. He took it, and stood with her.

“There’s a house nearby. I don’t think we should risk being out here much longer,” he said.

“Agreed.”

As they left the partial tree cover provided by the spruces, the full force of the wind hit them. Gaerwyn balked, leaning into Cullen to maintain her footing. He wrapped a protective arm around her, his other shielding his vision from the shard-like bombardment of snow. The bare outline of a house could be discerned in the near distance. Quickening their pace, they were soon at the sealed door. Gaerwyn heaved back on the door handle, giving her all to pull the door ajar. Cullen placed a hand on her shoulder. She stepped back and watched as the Commander wrenched on the handle, prying the door free of its frame with a crack. Ice had lined the crannies between the threshold and door, effectively sealing the entrance shut. “I could have melted that,” she said defensively.

“And set the house on fire?” Cullen asked, one eyebrow raised.

“In the snow?”

“Let’s not take any risks.”

Gaerwyn slipped inside, bracing her back against the door so that the wind wouldn’t throw it slam it closed. Cullen entered shortly after. Together, they warred against the howling gale outside to shut the door. They bolted it shut, releasing a shared sigh of relief. The mage caught sight of her Commander then. She broke into a loud fit of laughter, covering her mouth to prevent a snort from escaping her mouth. Cullen was almost completely powdered in white. His hair was a mess of icy curls, and his nose reddened by the chill.

“Let’s get a fire going,” Gaerwyn said.

According to Adan, the decrepit building were originally his mentor’s quarters while he was serving as apothecary for the Inquisition. His mentor had passed at the Conclave. The house was still in livable condition, if not a tad bit drafty. An old, matted rug covered the stone floor, the edges fraying due to neglect and the elements. Save for a few spare chairs and a box of kindling, the other furnishings were probably returned to Haven to find use with the living.

“I thought the storm wasn’t supposed to come in for another few hours.” Cullen sighed. He set to building a fire in the hearth, where a fine layer of ice made the task near impossible.

“It appears you owe me fifty silver.” Gaerwyn grinned. She knelt beside the Commander and gently blew on the hearth. In moments, the ice sizzled as it was drawn up the chimney in a plume of steam, and a spark of heat took its place. The hearth glistened as if filled with shimmering amber stones. The embers soon matured into a crackling fire and set to warming the entire room.

“Would you be able to last a day without magic?” Cullen asked jokingly.

The mage cast him a sideways smirk. “Yes, in fact. Once you learn to control your magic, the first thing the enchanters tell you is to stop using it, save for when training, of course. They told us that in the rare case of our gift being required by the outside world, we would only be permitted to use it with our handler’s permission. At all other times, we cooked, cleaned, and cared for ourselves as anyone outside the Circle would. At least… that was the practice in Ostwick.”

“I remember the mages in the Ferelden Circle working under similar practices… I should not have assumed. Forgive me,” he said.

“Think nothing of it.” Gaerwyn shrugged. “It was all the more necessary when I was Tranquil to have those skills.”

A look of hurt darted over Cullen’s features, but the man did his best to suppress the sudden show of emotion.

“Does it bother you? That I was Tranquil?” Gaerwyn leaned back into a recumbent position, propping her head up on one hand.

“N-no, it isn’t as if you had control over that. I just…” He searched for the correct words to say. “It enrages me that something so cruel was done to you.”

“You don’t believe the Rite of Tranquility should be invoked?”

“Before meeting you, I would have said that the Rite should be used only in the most dire of situations. Now, I am not so sure if I’d agree to it even then,” he confessed. “But I am not the one influenced by this… what of you? What do you think?”

Gaerwyn shrugged. “When I was in the Circle, they warned me that showing even the slightest weakness or slipping up even once in keeping my magic in check, would result in the Rite being invoked. I learned to pity the Tranquil before I learned to see them as people.” She rolled over on her side to stare into the fire. With one idle finger, Gaerwyn made stirring motions in the air. The flames snaked about, guided by her will. “I came to realize only after the Rite had been reversed on me that the Chantry was teaching us to fear our gift. In fearing our gift, so many lost the ability to control it. I began to wonder, if we were taught that magic was a tool like any other, and to wield it meant one must be prepared to be burnt, would the Rite be used so often? So many of the Tranquil were just terrified children who thought they were at fault in one way or another. Honestly… some of those feelings still haunt me from time to time.”

Cullen listened intently as Gaerwyn carried her thought through to the end, something that the lass had seen so few do. Perhaps it was the atmosphere of the Circle, where so many tended to disagree over the politics and practice of magic. The one who argued the loudest would be the one who was listened to. There came a point where that logic began to grate on Gaerwyn’s nerves, and she opted to carry on her research with a select few individuals. With a soft smile, she proceeded to unclasp the silverite bracelets holding her gloves in place.

“My hands are soaked,” she exclaimed, slowly peeling her gloves off. Her left hand glowed with the Mark, a gash of shimmering green light against pale skin. “I suppose I should refrain from future snowball fights.”

“Is it always like that?”

“My gloves?”

“The Mark.”

“Ah.” She glanced at it pensively. “No. It tends to act up when I walk too close to a Rift. Putting my hand into a cook fire would be more pleasant.”

“May I see?” Cullen asked.

“If you’d like.” She reached out her left hand, expecting him to probe at the Mark in a manner similar to Adan, all technicality and observation. Instead, Cullen took a moment to untie the vambraces encircling his forearms, and then removing his gloves directly after.

She had to swallow a gasp when his bare hand touched hers. Maker, why was she feeling this way? It felt as if a warm hearth fire was being stoked to life in her stomach, and cotton was infused in her chest. His hands were calloused and warm against hers. Gently, the Commander ran a finger over the Mark, the castoff light rippling under his thumb. He soon seemed to forget about the enigma, and let his touch dip into the valley of her palm, where he stroked a pinkish scar located on the crest of her thumb.

“I shocked myself rather badly there,” Gaerwyn mused.

“Here?” He slid his hand down to her wrist, unaware of the jolt of pleasure thrilling down her arm. 

“Burned myself with a fire spell. Got the glyphs wrong.” She smiled warily. His eyes were focused on her hands, the gold flecks of his irises catching in the firelight. The mage found herself utterly entranced. She tilted her head to the side, releasing a soft breath of wonder. His eyes flicked up to hers, only now becoming aware of her watching him.

“And this?” He ran a finger over the scar streaking over her knuckles, not breaking his gaze from hers.

“I fell down the stairs while running with scissors. Don’t look at me like that!”

“I’m surprised is all.” He made no effort to muffle his laughter.

“May I see your hand?” Gaerwyn inquired, her grip slowly closing around Cullen’s large fingers.

“It appears you have me in your clutches as it is,” he said with a chuckle.

She sat up and leaned over to have a better angle to hold the Commander’s wrist by. Gaerwyn overturned his hand to look at his palm. The skin was hardened and leathery from wielding a sword, but the creases of his palm lines were still present. She touched her finger to one, running it over the slight curve. A long lifeline, she thought to herself, smiling softly. Signs of complications in life, but it was deep and unwavering. Never faltering or breaking.

“Your hands are practically unblemished.” She sighed. “I suppose that is the benefit to wearing gauntlets and the sort.”

“Are you reading my hand?” Cullen asked. “You’re trying to cover that up, aren’t you?”

“I do not know what you mean,” Gaerwyn shot back. “Who would dare to invest their valuable time into learning such parlor tricks?”

“Apparently you.”

“…there was a book in the Circle library, I was bored,” she sputtered.

Cullen leaned in to watch her trace a finger over his wrist. “Well, what does it say?”

“You’ll live a long life and take a short, but important, trip,” she stated brusquely.

“Isn’t there a line detailing affairs of the heart?”

“Oh? And I wasted my time reading a book on Palmistry? It appears that Templars had quite the glut of recreational time as well,” she snapped back, shoving his shoulder playfully. “The heart line. I think that is a bit of an invasion of privacy-“

“You read it.”

“Of course I did,” she said defensively.

“What did it say?”

“Well, you will fall for someone, if you haven’t already.” She nudged him in the shoulder. “Josephine is quite lovely, I must say.”

A sudden burst of envy awoke in her chest. The remark was made in jest, but easily morphed into a new anxiety. Never would she fight with another woman for a man's affections. Nor would she fight with a man for a woman's affections. That sort of contest sickened her. As did the thought of Cullen being enamored with someone else. 

He would be more likely to carry a torch for the Ambassador than for a mage! They worked together on a day-to-day basis, whereas Gaerwyn was lucky to steal him away for an hour when she returned to Haven. She rarely stayed for more than a week before taking to the field once more. The more she gave thought to her passing statement, the more the relationship she longed for seemed highly unlikely...

The very thought hurt.

Cullen drew back in shock, reeling from Gaerwyn's comment. “N-no, Lady Montilyet and I are colleagues, and nothing else. Besides if I am smitten with anyone it’s-“

“I’m listening.” There was hope then? She sent a silent word of thanks to the Maker.

Abject embarrassment spread over Cullen’s cheeks. “What exactly are you trying to find out?” he asked. He hadn’t withdrawn his hand from Gaerwyn’s touch as of yet, and appeared unwilling to do so.

“It’s a parlor trick, you can’t learn anything from someone’s hand. If my hand is correct, then my lifeline is significantly shorter than most and-“

“Gaerwyn…” Cullen moved his hand from her hold to rest on her face. “If it’s a parlor trick, what has you so flustered?”

“I…” She felt her mind go blank as her racing thoughts suddenly dissolved into nothingness. “Can’t think when you’re touching my face.”

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, I’m sorr—“

“I didn’t say move your hand either!” she said irritably.

The Commander’s attempt to draw his hand back was foiled. “What is the matter with you?” He chuckled softly.

“I…”

“You’re blushing,” he murmured.

“ _You’re_ blushing!”

“So I am,” he agreed. “Gaerwyn, could I…”

“What?”

He was silent. With the pad of his thumb, he traced the outline of her parted lips. Her breath caught in her throat, producing a soft gasp.

“I- that is- I’m being overly presumptuous, forgive me-“

Gaerwyn grasped Cullen by his chest plate, halting his attempt to stand. She bit her lip, trying to maintain her composure. Otherwise, she would probably end up a blushing mess of nerves. “If I didn’t want you to be so close… you would know.” She leaned into him, using her knees to balance her weight.

“Gaerwyn, could I… kiss you?”

She grinned, a laugh blossoming in her chest, her breath warm on his lips. Her heart was beating a rapid and unsteady rhythm, one which she had to contain lest it burst from her chest. “Yes, Commander, you could. The question is will you?”

As if cradling a small bird, Cullen took her face in his hands. Gaerwyn mirrored the action, one hand tenderly caressing his jawline. The stubble forming on his face tickled her fingers, making her nose scrunch in amusement.

The Commander removed one of his hands to rest over the mage’s warm touch. He closed his eyes, taking solace in the contact. This was the only time either had lapsed and allowed themselves to be so intimate with the other. Certainly, the nights spent warding off their respective nightmares were comforting, but they had always maintained a strained sense of propriety. The nights in which they had shared the same bed had been perceived as platonic by both, neither requesting anything more than the other’s comfort. Now their hands were bared and touching, and the unspoken boundaries were all but sundered, save for a few hanging by tenuous threads.

Cullen slid his hand down Gaerwyn’s arm, coming to rest with it placed against the small of her back. He pulled her close, lips finally meeting. Or… there was a moment of contact.

The door was flung open by the wind, the bolts shuddered as the wooden paneling slammed against the wall. In unison, the two flung themselves back from the other. The hearth fire shrank, as if mimicking Gaerwyn’s depleting courage. She was on her feet first, rushing to meet the storm head on. Placing her hands squarely on the door, she warred with the raging gale.

A swell of wind barreled into the door, throwing Gaerwyn’s balance. She grit her teeth together and resisted the pull of gravity. She would not fall over. Two hands joined hers, and together, she and Cullen shut the door. The Herald forced the various bolts back into place, ensuring that the small strips of metal were secure in their respective chambers. The door rattled in its frame, the force of the wind palpable under Gaerwyn’s hands.

“You’re freezing,” Cullen murmured, stroking her cheek. “Come back to the fireside.” Gaerwyn gladly acquiesced to his request. Removing his surcoat, Cullen wrapped it firmly around her. She buried her nose into the thick fur mantle, taking in the various smells permeating the fabric. Armor, sweat, some sort of cologne that she couldn’t name. It wasn’t Orlesian, seeing as most perfumes originating from the country were noxious with their potency. Cullen’s cologne was subtle, like spiced ginger. It suited him.

Gaerwyn laughed softly. “To think… all that built up tension, completely destroyed.”

Cullen exhaled, his shoulders slumping. With a sigh, Gaerwyn placed a small peck on his cheek. “So dejected,” she said.

“I… oh, sod it.” He wrapped his arms around her frame and pulled her in for a kiss. She released a soft noise of pleasure, happily returning the eagerness of his sentiment. There was a brief fumbling as their lips met, and they were overwhelmed with the other’s reciprocation.

Initially, their first moment of intimacy was awkward, as one would uncertainly ease closer to the other in hopes to deepen the kiss. In their eagerness to touch and be touched, their noses mashed and their teeth clicked together. Awkwardness fell away to the gripping urge to be all the closer. His lips were warm and pliant against hers, if not hindered by a deep sense of wariness. As if he feared he would make a dire error. Gaerwyn mended the gap, her touch soothing and reassuring, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her body against his. By no means did he object. One of his hands tangled into the thick locks of auburn pooling around her shoulders and neck, while the other rested on the small of her back.

She nipped his lower lip, grinning when Cullen released a soft gasp. His breath smelled like tea. A blend of mint and jasmine? She couldn’t tell, but she liked it. Her Commander dropped all pretenses then. He deepened the kiss, flicking his tongue against her lips. His tongue was warm and rough against hers, and rather enticing, Gaerwyn found herself thinking. She needed to feel him. To be as close as was feasibly possible. She pulled herself into his lap, wrapping her legs loosely about his waist.

“Too fast?” she asked, her hands drifting to his shoulders. Her lips didn't manage to leave his for more than a stint of a second.

“No,” he said, his voice deep with husky undertones; the one word full of so much want and longing that Gaerwyn found herself left breathless. He wanted her. It was a concept that seemed so foreign to the mage. Certainly, there had been a few individuals in her life that had elicited a similar reaction from her, but never had that sensation been coupled with this desire. Cullen desired her, was enraptured by her. And she, Maker, she was utterly and completely enamored with the man. Cullen tugged on the front of Gaerwyn’s borrowed surcoat, pressing a kiss so tender to her lips, that a contented sigh was freed from her chest.

She had contemplated kissing him for some time now. Those idle fantasies intensified during her time in the Hinterlands. Her imagination hardly did the man justice, she found. The way his hand stroked her back was enough to leave her shivering in pleasure. She was certain that her thundering heartbeat was reverberating over his breastplate. The cold metal was warming against her chest. While he had initially been tangled up in his nerves over making a fool of himself, he abandoned those doubts. He became more certain, leaving kisses that seared her lips and pooled hot in her belly. His stubble was rough on her chin and cheeks, but not in an unpleasant way. In fact, she found it rather endearing how he pulled back to apologize profusely for not shaving beforehand... as if he could predict what their evening walk entailed! Gaerwyn pressed her forehead to his, stroking his jawline lovingly with the pad of her thumb.

The Commander was evidently relieved by her response. He kissed her warmly. A gentle and caring show of affection- one that she intended to covet. She released a soft hum of pleasure, to which Cullen responded to by smiling into the kiss. He had taken to stroking her lower back, aware of how the mage was enjoying the small nuances of their shared intimacy, and how her body reacted in turn

She tangled her fingers into the thick curls of his hair, loving how his locks coiled about her fingers. Her breath was coming in short bursts now, leaving her euphoric. He played with the buckles of her high-collar tunic, deftly undoing the first five to leave her collarbone exposed. Cullen dipped his mouth into the crook of the Herald’s neck, pressing kisses to the bared flesh.

“S-stop!” Gaerwyn gasped.

“W-what’s wrong?” He drew back. “Did I hurt you?”

“N-no, no! J-just my neck is ticklish,” she said sheepishly.

They shared a prolonged stare of bafflement, only to be reduced to a pile of limbs and uncontrollable laughter.

“We’ll figure this out,” Cullen murmured, tracing a line down her neck with the tip of his finger.

“I can’t think like this!” Gaerwyn squealed, swatting at his hand playfully.

“Shall I stop?”

“Maker, no.” She initiated the second kiss, taking his lower lip between hers. He chuckled softly and returned the affection in kind.

\--

“What does this make us?” Cullen inquired, pressing a tender kiss to Gaerwyn’s temple. The two laid by the fireside, curled up under Cullen’s surcoat. He had abandoned his armor in a carefully laid out array on a nearby table, allowing for another one of his defenses to fall away. Her back was pressed to his chest, their breathing synchronized. As if they were not two people, or one soul, but a song of breathing, soft murmurs, and tickling strands of stray hair.

The mage was silent. Her fingers stroked Cullen’s palm in circular motions, running over the fine creases covering his hand in a web of lines. “That would depend, my dear Commander.” Her voice was oddly soft. “What do you want?”

“I- are you going to discount your desires?” He propped himself up on one arm, and gingerly eased her onto her back. She looked up at him, her eyes betraying nothing. “I want to know what you want,” he said quietly.

“What I…” She averted her gaze. “You make it sound so simple.”

“Shouldn’t it be?”

“A matter of ‘should’ and ‘is’ are often mutually exclusive,” she said with a snort. “I wouldn’t have allowed myself to be trapped in a cabin with someone I did not trust implicitly. Nor would I have kissed someone I did not have affections for.” She exhaled through her nose, a lock of auburn hair rippling with the exertion of air. “That being said, yes, I want what we have between us to be more than friendship, but still to be as supportive and genuine as a friendship. I want…” She turned her gaze to the fireplace. “I want this to make us, well- how does one… I mean—“

“Maker, you are impossible.” He cradled the side of her face in his palm. “Aren’t I the one who’s supposed to be strapped for words?”

“Curse you for being so bloody adorable whenever you are.” She pushed her lips into a moue. “I want to be with you as more than what I am now. I... that is- well, how do I… ugh, I want a relationship of the amorous persuasion!” In one sudden jerking motion, Gaerwyn wrenched up Cullen’s surcoat and hid her features in the fabric. “Maker that sounded so academic. Why did I say that? Just leave me to die. I’m fine. Really.”

Cullen fell onto his back, laughing uproariously. His chest twinged with an ache, and he was left gasping for air. When he had managed to catch his breath, he turned back to where Gaerwyn lay huddled. She peered at him over the thick mantle of fur with large eyes.

“I want that as well,” he said, leaning forward. He brushed his lips over her brow, leaving a trail of soft kisses. As he pressed his lips to one closed eye, Gaerwyn sheepishly looped her arms around his neck. She brought her lips to his in a show of shy affection.

“So, would you say that was of the amorous persuasion or—“

“You hush!” Gaerwyn lightly pressed her hand over Cullen’s mouth. “I’m not living this down, am I?”

In a smothered dialogue, Cullen said something that certainly sounded like Gaerwyn would be incapable of forgetting her exact wording for a while. She removed her hand, and was swept into another kiss.

“We should get some sleep,” he said, pulling back. His lips were swollen and his cheeks scorched by a blush. “I don’t think the blizzard will let up until morning.”

Gaerwyn nodded. She curled up against Cullen’s side, resting one hand over his heart. The Mark’s pale green light glowed in the near darkness. He kissed the top of her head, biting the inside of his cheek to resist the impulse to bring his lips to hers once more. “You seem to enjoy kissing me, Commander,” she said, her words slurring together as the thralls of sleep overtook her.

“I do,” he replied, stroking her head, each flourish lengthening until he was running his hand down the length of her back. “I pray you enjoy kissing me as well?”

She hummed softly. “Yes. How long have you wanted to do that?”

“Longer than I should admit.” He paused. “Ever since our first night in the Chantry.” He could still remember how she appeared then. Slightly disheveled, eyes bright with worry, and a voice so soft and so strong. In the glow of the candlelight, she was ethereal. “What about you?”

“After I brought you tea for the first time. Again, after I returned from Redcliffe.” She closed her eyes.

“To think we both… Gaerwyn, are you asleep?” No response, save for the shallow rise and fall of her chest. He smiled, lifted her hands to his lips, and pressed a kiss to the scarred knuckles.

\--

“Maker, why do you wear all of this?” Gaerwyn asked. She watched Cullen buckle his armor in place, piece by piece. “Isn’t it a pain to put on every day?”

“It becomes routine after a while,” he replied, looking at the mage. She lay on the floor, her figure, save for the tips of her bare feet, obscured by his surcoat. The way she smiled at him forced a blush to his cheeks, one which he did his best to hide.

Gaerwyn slowly sat up, stretching her arms above her head. She reached for her enchanter’s coat and slipped it on with relative ease. Her boots followed shortly afterwards. She stuffed her gloves into the large pocket of her coat, shoving the accessories into a compact ball that wouldn’t leap free at a moment’s notice.

Cullen had turned his attention to buckling a vambrace onto his forearm when he felt Gaerwyn plant a soft kiss on his cheek. He turned his head to capture her lips with his. The mage issued a soft moan. She rested a hand against his jaw, rising to the balls of her feet to better reach him.

“Maker, if we keep going on like this, we’ll never make it out of this house,” Cullen said.

“Oh? Do you have something in mind that you have yet to share with me, my dear Commander?” Gaerwyn leaned up against the wall, raising one eyebrow in an overtly suggestive manner.

“If I had any plans of that sort, my dear Herald, we wouldn’t be at our respective posts until later this evening,” he responded.

She offered him his surcoat, which he put on. Her scent still lingered in the fabric. Sweet, like lavender with the tang of elfroot. It suited her.

“Oh, while we’re here.” He retrieved Gaerwyn’s scarf from the table he had placed his armor on the night prior. “I meant to return it yesterday. Forgive me, I—“

Gaerwyn wordlessly took the soft red cotton into her hands, a gentle smile spreading over her lips. She wrapped the scarf around her neck, pressing her nose into the fabric.

“We should make for Haven,” he told her.

The mage nodded her agreement. Slipping her arm around his, the two left the house to see a landscape whitewashed in snow.

“It’s so beautiful,” Gaerwyn whispered.

The Commander looked to the woman, watching her marvel over the large dunes of snow. She took a few steps forward, the snowdrift rising to well above her knees. 

“Gaerwyn,” he said, his voice gentle.

She turned… to be met with a snowball slamming into her front.

“Ah, so you demand a rematch, I see,” she said, her features deadpan in expression. “Well. I can accommodate that.” 

She loped into the woods, her curses drifting over her head as she tripped. “Why is this snow so powdery? Cullen, how did you make a snowball with this useless tripe?” she called out.

He grinned, creeping towards where her profanities were issued. He discovered what appeared to be a large indent in the snow from Gaerwyn’s descent, and the smearing lines of her rolling away. He followed her indiscreet tracks, expecting to find her kneeling behind one tree or another snarlingcursing at a mound of snow that refused to be shaped. Instead… he was greeted by one body slamming into his, effectively causing him to lose his balance. The two tumbled head over heels in a tangled mass of limbs to the bottom of the hill.

“I win,” Gaerwyn declared from her perch atop him. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?” Her voice filled with concern, and she made to slide off of him. She was stopped by Cullen cupping her hips in his hands.

“It’s alright.” Cullen chuckled. “Startled, not hurt. Though, I would appreciate some warning before you choose to tackle me again. Honestly, you fight dirty.”

She nodded. “I suppose I am blessed to have such an honorable Commander.”

“To argue with you whenever you intend to do something morally grey?”

“The hair is a nice touch too.” She leaned in to kiss him. Her lips had barely grazed his when a voice boomed throughout the clearing.

“It’s about sodding time!” Bull crowed, his laughter setting the two on edge. “You two look like a couple of teenagers caught rutting in a farm!”

“Oi! Did ya find ‘em?” Sera shouted to Bull.

“I did indeed,” the Qunari confirmed.

“Wait… are ya doing it in the snow?” she asked incredulously. “I mean, that’s impressive an’ all, but why the snow? The frostbite ain’t even worth it. Take it from me, yeah?”

“W-what?” Cullen glanced up at Gaerwyn. She was straddling his waist, with her hair mussed and tangled. Not to mention there was a love bite just barely visible above her shirt collar. The Commander had been insistent on tickling her, and in the heat of the moment, he kissed her neck and left a reminder of their night together. She, of course, reciprocated by leaving a similar impression on his collarbone. The thought of Gaerwyn's laughter melting into moans of pleasure as he left the love bite reduced him to a blushing mess under her.

“You two should hurry on back,” Bull continued. “See, there’s a small search party looking for you. I guess they’re worried you got lost in the blizzard.

Gaerwyn rose to her feet unsteadily, and Cullen followed suit. Sera and Bull happily accompanied them back to Haven, seeming to have already forgotten the compromising position they found their Herald and Commander in.

“Don’t worry,” Gaerwyn told him. “They’ve only dropped it for the time being. It’ll be the talk of the tavern tonight.”

He released a groan. As the two entered the Chantry, they were promptly greeted by Leliana and Josephine.

“We’re so relieved to know you’re safe,” Leliana said, a knowing smile playing on her features. Her eyes flickered to Gaerwyn’s neck. She knew everything she needed then.

“Ah, yes,” Josephine echoed the Spymaster’s sentiments. “We were worried that we had lost our Commander and Herald to the storm. We would apologize for not sending out a search party sooner, but, well, it appears that an apology isn’t necessary.”

“I think they know,” Gaerwyn said to Cullen, her voice raised in a mock whisper.

The Commander placed a hand on the back of his neck, as he was wont to do when embarrassed. “We had a meeting this morning, yes?” he asked. “Shall we focus on the task at hand?”

“If you like, Commander.” Leliana and Josephine shared a knowing glance.

\--

The war meeting proceeded as per the norm, save for Leliana and Josephine dropping the occasional innuendo in hopes of drawing a reaction from Cullen or Gaerwyn. They were enjoying themselves far too much. Though, if the ribbing were anything but friendly, Gaerwyn would have reacted violently. Seeing as the jests were made with a sibling-like affection attached, the mage found herself unperturbed.

When the meeting adjourned, the four departed without another word spared. The three had to return to their respective posts, whereas Gaerwyn had been gifted a few days of rest. After having gathered a substantial amount of resources, the reprieve was more or less been foisted on her. Not that she would object. She found herself in need of a midday nap.

“Herald.” Cullen fell into step with her. As both were headed in the same direction, no one would assume anything out of ordinary. It was already well known that the Herald and Commander of the Inquisition were close. 

“May I help you, Commander?” Gaerwyn returned. The two made for the stairway leading into the main part of Haven.

“I don’t really have anything of note to say,” he informed her. “I just wanted to see you before our duties dictated otherwise.”

“Ah, yes, my nap will certainly keep me away,” Gaerwyn joked. “I did want to speak to you, though.”

Cullen halted, eyes flooding with worry. “Is everything alright?” he asked.

“Of course. I realize that privacy in an army encampment is hard to come by,” she began. “I wanted to make sure you were, well, comfortable with, well… us. People are bound to find out.”

“I would prefer my- our private affairs remain exactly that,” Cullen replied. “But, I do want this- us. I’m making a mess of this, forgive me—“

“You don’t need to apologize.” Gaerwyn steadied a hand on his arm. “I’m glad. The last thing I want you to fear is talking to me,” she said. “That being said, tell me if something is amiss. I’m here for you.”

“The courtesy is extended to you as well, Herald,” Cullen replied. “Now, I believe you have a nap to attend to.”

“Ah, I’m late for my appointment!”

“We can’t have that.”

Gaerwyn bid him a fond farewell, one that a passerby might confuse for an affectionate, yet platonic, gesture from one friend to another. When evening came and mead was flowing freely and lips were loosened, no doubt a few soldiers were likely to find out otherwise. While they listened with rapt attention, either to Varric spinning a tale of the Champion, or a drunken Sera setting the scene of a lusty Herald and lascivious Commander lying in the snowy turf, forming the two-backed beast; another story was being spun.

The Commander sat in the Herald’s quarters. A fire was roaring in the hearth and a kettle of hot water was being prepared for tea. Cullen leaned forward, attentive to the gentle strumming of a lute. He watched her fingers dance over the instrument’s strings as she played a song he requested. She opted to sit near the fireplace, her back warmed by the dancing flames coiling about in the hearth. To say that he was not enthralled by her, the music, this moment, would have been a lie.

She glanced up at him. “Did I play it correctly?” she inquired. “I’ve never heard this song before.”

Cullen knelt down beside her. “Yes, my lady. I think you did.”

“Ah, good.” She plucked at the strings absent-mindedly. “Is there another song you would like to hear?”

“Is there a song you enjoy?”

“Many,” she replied. “I would love to share one with you, if you would like.”

Cullen nodded. “I would be honored.”

She leaned against him. From her lute, she plucked a fine melody. A song so soft, only the two currently inhabiting the Herald’s quarters would be capable of hearing. A song that painted an image of a river flowing under moonlight, moving like threads of quicksilver over a riverbed of dark stone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	18. Standing on the Precipice (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaerwyn is apprehensive about the march on the Breach. She confides in Cullen, and begs for a promise.
> 
> Cullen learns that the Herald might not survive the assault on the Breach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so so sorry for not posting last week, and then having such a late post this week. I had written out the march on the Breach, but then I realized that it was lacking in depth. I've come to realize that the chapters I write are basically skeletons to a larger idea that I would like to tackle. My hope is to post two more chapters next week, but I want to ensure that these chapters are up to my standards before I do so.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> **TRIGGER WARNING:** There is violence in this chapter. the violence does not occur until the dream sequence. If you do not want to read said scene, message me and I will be happy to summarize what happened.

“Look at them,” one of the tavern regulars hissed, her eyes trained on the Commander and the Herald. “To think they can be so open about their relationship. Disgusting!”

Gaerwyn glanced up from her bowl of stew. “I thought we were just eating,” she said, voicing her confusion. “Are we not allowed to dine in public together?”

“We are,” Cullen said in acknowledgment. “I suppose word spreads quickly. I’ve had two recruits approach me to ask how you are and, I, um,” he trailed off, masking his mortification by raising hiss tankard to his lips.

“I put my foot down when plugs come into play—“ Cullen choked on his mead, face flushed red. By embarrassment or asphyxiation, Gaerwyn did not know. 

“You alright?”

“Fine, fine. I’m fine,” he assured her, wiping his mouth hastily with the handkerchief Gaerwyn offered. “I gave the recruits cleaning detail for the next month. Regardless of if we choose to interact in public, they need to act professionally.”

“Sage words.” She bit into a piece of bread, chewing contentedly.

“How vulgar!”

“Did you hear that they have a bastard together?”

“Maker, they’ll sully the image of the Inquisition!”

“She’s a Tranquil and he’s a Templar. That’s hardly appropriate.”

Gaerwyn set the heel of bread down. She placed the palms of her hands on the table, pushing herself up from her seat. If they were going to spread bile, then Gaerwyn would put an end to it. She could be rather convincing when she wanted to be. Most people backed down when the very air crackled with a spell. Without looking up, Cullen reached over and touched her wrist. A gentle, but attention-rendering gesture. She paused.

“Please,” he said, eyes meeting hers. She settled back into her seat.

“Forgive me,” she murmured.

“There’s no need,” he replied.

“So,” Gaerwyn leaned in conversationally. “Tell me about our bastard.”

Cullen smirked. “She has my eyes and your temperament. I fear she may also share your proclivity for ice magic.”

“What name did we decide on?”

“We didn’t. You hated all the ones I suggested,” he said. “I’ve been referring to her as Pumpkin for the time being.”

“Our daughter is not a gourd.” Gaerwyn leaned back in her chair.

“You’re doing it again!” He laughed. “She set fire to the pantry for the third time.”

“I told you to stop storing pickled beets. We both hate them. If she hadn’t set fire to the blasted thing, then I would have.”

The two broke into a restrained fit of laughter. “We are not helping with the rumors, are we?” Gaerwyn asked.

Her Commander shook his head. “We aren’t. It’s too loud for prying ears though.”

“Leliana would argue otherwise, but I’ll take some solace in the thought,” Gaerwyn replied.

The two left the tavern shortly afterwards. In the moonless night sky, the Breach glowed over the Frostbacks, a halo of pale green crowning one prominent mountain peak. The eerie light resembled a phantom-like figure of more sinister dreams.

“Three more days,” Gaerwyn whispered. “We’ll be back in the temple.” She crossed her arms over her chest, halting in the middle of the path to look up. “How do you think it happened?” she asked Cullen.

The Commander paused. “I don’t know,” he said. “I expect we will find out eventually.”

“I certainly hope so.”

“Shall I walk you to your quarters?” Cullen inquired.

“I would like that.” She slipped her hand into his, his leathery skin warm against her fingers. Callouses were beginning to form on the ridges of her palms from continuously wielding her staff. Cullen had taken to kissing her knuckles, palms, and fingers after she revealed her dislike of the hardened flesh. The mage would respond by blushing profusely, perhaps still unaccustomed to not wearing her gloves on a regular basis anymore.

“Are the rumors bothering you?” she asked as they fell into step together.

“Some more than others,” he replied. “And you?”

“They aren’t any worse than what they said about me being a Tranquil. In fact, I think the rumors floating about are much kinder than before.” She nestled into his arm, closing her eyes. “Not to say I haven’t enlisted Sera in acts of vengeance on more than one occasion now.”

Upon reaching her quarters, the Herald and Commander slipped inside like shadows. The small house was dark, save for the dying embers lighting the fireplace. All pretenses dropped when the door locked behind them.

“I do hope you intend on telling me goodnight properly,” Gaerwyn said, her voice dropping to a dulcet purr.

Cullen slid his arms around her frame, pulling her into a longing embrace. Beyond the confines of their respective chambers, they had to refrain from this sort of contact. While they may be in an intimate relationship, they still had to maintain a sense of propriety and professionalism when in public. He rested his forehead against hers, sharing in the evening silence.

He felt a familiar weight encircle his neck as Gaerwyn secured her scarf. He had only recently returned it to her. Needless to say he didn't know why she would leave it in his keeping so shortly after regaining it.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Would you hold onto this for me?” the mage replied with a question, removing her hands from the lush red cotton.

“Of course.” The promise came easily. “Now, I do believe I haven’t said goodnight properly…”

“No, you have not,” she confirmed, nodding solemnly. “High society would have your head, my dear Commander.”

“May I?”

“You may.” He placed one hand under her chin, stroking her lower lip with his thumb. He leaned in, his mouth meeting hers in a gentle kiss. She rose up onto the balls of her feet, wrapping her arms about his neck, letting one drift into his hair where it entangled itself.

“You’re obsessed with my hair.” Cullen grinned, pressing his lips to her jawbone.

“Forgive my fixation,” Gaerwyn retorted playfully. She kissed his nose, taking enjoyment in how he scrunched his features in response. He rubbed his stubble-brushed cheek against hers in one brusque and playful motion. The mage squeaked, cursing how ticklish she was. Cullen had assured her that he found her sensitivity to touch endearing, not in those words, of course, but phrasing of a similar, more suggestive variety.

She leaned back against the door, causing it to shudder under her weight. Cullen was already undoing the first few buckles on her tunic his lips running down the length of her throat. If not for her high-collars, everyone would see the growing collection of love bites on her neck and collarbone. She bit back her laughter, succeeding only in making her shoulders quake.

“I’m sorry, I can’t stop giggling.” She covered her mouth to refrain from speaking too loudly. “You’re obsessed with my neck.”

“I can stop,” he said. There was no reproach in his words. In the short time they had been romantically involved, Gaerwyn had learned he did not begrudge being told to stop. Her comfort mattered to him.

“I like it,” she said quietly, running a hand over a love bite situated on her collarbone. “When you kiss my neck, I mean.”

He smiled gently. “I’m glad.”

They shared one final kiss. Cullen placed his large hands over her waist, bringing her into a warm embrace. She loved the softness of his mantle against her skin, and the chill of his armor. Gaerwyn ran the tip of her tongue against his lower lip, releasing a soft hum when he opened his mouth to allow her entry. While some of their kisses were chaste and brief, most were kisses that seared hot and were filled with longing, lasting for any length of time. To be incapable of expressing affection beyond the confines of their chambers, with only the flimsiest promise of privacy, was utterly maddening. They had to take care not to look at one another in a suggestive way, lest Haven have another rumor bred by their indiscretion. These stolen moments were coveted by the two.

“That was a proper way to see a lady off.” Gaerwyn laughed, trying to catch her breath. “I’d beg you to stay the night, if it weren’t for duties tomorrow.”

“Go to bed.” Cullen smirked.

“Of course, my dear Commander.” She slipped off her enchanters coat, tossing it over the back of a chair. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“You will,” he promised.

“Give my love to Pumpkin?”

“I always do.” He tucked the red scarf into the crevice made by his breastplate and collarbone. It was just out of sight, the gauzy material soothing against his skin.

He shoved the door open, looking about to ensure that there were no prying eyes. Of course Leliana’s spies would be hard to spot, but they weren’t the ones he found himself worrying about. They wouldn’t spread rumors unless their Spymaster bid them to do so. Cullen maintained a shaky confidence in that he had yet to do anything that would inspire such a need for vengeance in Sister Nightingale.

Bidding Gaerwyn goodnight, he slipped out into the darkness. The torchlight glazed his armor in a sheen of orange, dusting the fur and feathers of his mantle in a fine red. Cullen crept onward, making for the Chantry.

“Well, well,” Varric called out. The Commander lurched to a halt. “Never thought I’d see Curly, of all people, sneaking around like he’s got something to hide.”

“Varric!” Cullen hissed.

“Oh, right, my mistake. Don’t want to get caught, now do you?” Varric pushed his reading glasses further up the bridge of his nose, the firelight catching against the glass. “Lightning would be gallivanting about, laughing at an unnecessary volume at this hour. Subtlety isn’t her thing.”

“Goodnight, Varric,” he reiterated, ascending the stairs to the Chantry and disappearing into his chambers.

\--

Gaerwyn lit a candle, the tip of her finger glowing with magic. She allowed the Fade energy to disperse, drifting her fingers to her lips. His touch still lingered on her skin.

Withdrawing the ironbark pendant from under her tunic, Gaerwyn traced the tree inscribed into the surface. Pressing the object to her forehead, as if in prayer, she spoke.

“You’d be proud of me, Samahl. I found someone… or, well, I suppose the circumstances would dictate that we crashed into one another and rather liked the idea of seeing what would arise from the collision,” she whispered. She tried to imagine the lass sitting in the chair across from her, one leg drawn up and propped under her chin -like Samahl was wont to do during lectures given by stuffy Senior Enchanters. There would be a small smile playing over her lips, the corners of her eyes scrunching the fine vallaslin when she laughed.

“Honestly, being around him is so… nice. Blissful. It’s just so easy to joke with him. Samahl, why is it so easy and so hard at the same time? I mean…” Gaerwyn looked up, pain surging through her when she saw that the chair lay empty.

She kissed the pendant. “Samahl, he is so kind. So caring, and… attentive. He listens to me prattle on without interrupting, and he laughs at my jokes! Me! I think we established that I’m not as funny as I think I am. Maker, do I try though. Ah, the way he looks at me… I’d be waxing on a cliché if I said I could lose myself in his gaze, but I think I could. It felt easier to step through life feeling like I had nothing to lose, and acting as such. I lost you that way though… I took our friendship for granted, and then you died. Do I even deserve forgiveness? Maker, I need to stop blaming myself. You don’t blame me, do you?”

Silence. It wasn’t as if Gaerwyn expected an answer, but she longed to hear Samahl’s lilting voice again. Words that were buoyed up by a voice like a murmuring river. Gentle and constant.

“The thing is, it’s impossible for me to act that way anymore. I… I have so much to lose, and so much to protect. He makes me feel like I could do anything. Take on any foe. I honestly believe he thinks I could too.” She closed her hand over the pendent. “Thank you for everything, lethallan. I miss you.”

She stuffed the charm back into her tunic, feathering her hands over where it puckered the fabric. She readied herself for bed, thoughts wandering to the corpse of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, a husk that crowned one of the highest mountain peaks. Settling down on her bedside, Gaerwyn shut her eyes. Her mind was awash with the aftermath of the Conclave explosion. Samahl continued to come to mind, her remains curled up into a ball. As did the dreams that involved her friend. It was a nightly occurrence now, where she would awaken from a night terror, breathless and near tears. The vision of Samahl always stood there, accusing her of abandonment.

“I will make sure your body is returned to your clan,” she promised the absent phantom. With a sigh, the mage slipped under her thick bear fur blanket. The thralls of a troubled sleep soon overtook her.

\--

“Commander, a word.” Cassandra approached the mild-mannered man, her statement more of an order than a request. She gestured for Cullen to fall into step with her. Together, the two made for the Chantry.

“It has come to our attention that you and the Herald are rather… attached to one another,” she began, picking her words with care.

“I do not see how it is any of your business what my personal affairs entail,” he snapped.

Cullen maneuvered around three soldiers carrying a large pot of alchemist’s fire in the direction of the trebuchets. He prayed that the stockpile be allowed to languish for a while longer. The Inquisition recruits weren’t quite up to snuff yet. He needed more time. Regardless of what the others might think, Cullen still was uncertain that he had taught them enough. Could they block with a shield correctly? Could they work in a well managed battle formation? Did they know how to care for their armor and weapons?

Cassandra threw the Chantry doors open, revealing Leliana and Josephine standing at ready... like watchful parents awaiting a child who had violated one established rule or another. A growl boiled in his throat.

“Honestly, you act as if I have committed a heinous act of treason.” He sighed. Gaerwyn’s scarf was secured around his neck, just out of sight. She had not asked for it back yet, and he was loath to part with what small article he had of her. It smelled like elfroot balm and lemongrass, a scent that perpetually clung to her person.

“No… you have not, Commander,” Leliana began, her voice oddly gentle. “And for someone who has endured so much, you deserve what happiness you can find. We could say the same for the Herald as well.”

Cullen felt his body go rigid, knowing exactly what past events she was referring to. “Then why call me here to interrogate me?”

“That was not our intent, Commander.” Josephine stepped in, her writing apparatus supported by her arm and waist. “We just wished to inform you of the facts.”

“What facts?”

“We do not know if the Herald will survive closing the Breach,” Cassandra intoned. “The Mark stopped spreading after we dealt with the immediate threat left by the attack on the Conclave, but that does not mean that the threat has ceased to exist. The Herald is often exhausted after dealing with the smallest of rifts; there is no telling what toll the Breach will exact upon her.”

“Does she know this?”

“We… thought it best not to say anything,” Josephine said slowly. “ Do you honestly think that Lady Trevelyan is not aware of what ramifications may ensue? She bears the Mark after all. It is not as if we particularly enjoy the prospect of her dying, Commander.”

“But still… Maker’s breath, why are you even telling me this? Do you wish for me to distance myself or-“

“No, Commander, we would never ask such a thing of you. We just want you to be… prepared for every possible outcome. Lady Trevelyan’s death is one of the many.” Josephine's words hung heavy in the air. By no means were they trying to wrong Gaerwyn. If anything, they wanted to help her in any way possible. That didn't make matters any easier even then. The duty seemed to drag the three down. In the wordless silence, they felt like they were drowning.

\--

He departed shortly afterwards, finding his temperament soured greatly. To make matters worse, after concluding the unwanted conversation with the Spymaster and Lady Ambassador, Vivienne corralled him into a lecture thinly veiled as an idle chat between two peers. She inquired after the rumors circulating camp, cutting through the drivel to access the main, underlying theme. His relationship with Gaerwyn. It was more than obvious that she was aware of their romantic attachment, but there was little doubt in Cullen’s mind that she simply wanted to hear it from his mouth. She then went on another tirade involving the propriety that both parties must maintain in the face of the public. It was a blessing to locate an escape from the lengthening talk.

“Curly, you doing alright?” Varric asked, glancing up from Bianca. He was adjusting a few of the bow’s gears, his hands caked in blackened oil.

“I’m fine,” he snarled. “Have you seen the Herald?”

“She’s in her quarters. Mixing some potions would be my bet. Really though, what’s wrong?” Varric pressed.

“Nothing.”

“Curly, Lightning isn’t doing too well right now either. She emerged from her den a little earlier, white as a sheet. I really think that she needs someone. You, in particular, but I don’t think she’d want to see you like this. Not to say she isn’t there to support you. Believe me, she’d drop everything to make sure you were alright if she had an inkling of otherwise. You’d do the same. I don’t have to ask to know that much.” Varric propped Bianca up, rifling through a pack of spare parts.

That registered with the tightly-wound Commander. He sat down near the dwarf, dropping his stiff and haughty façade.

“Ruffles and Nightingale seemed pretty interested in speaking with you earlier. What’d they say exactly?”

Cullen exhaled. “They told me there isn’t any guarantee that Gaerwyn will live past sealing the Breach. That she might…” He closed his eyes, fighting to purge the thought of her death from his mind.

“So, you’re scared shitless for her?”

“I… yes.”

“You know, she never had any guarantee that she’d live through this, and she still chose to stay. I don’t need to lecture you on the semantics of war. There is never a promise of pulling through, not in times like these.”

“Why are you—“

“Sorry, did the middle of my thought interrupt the beginning of yours?” Chastened, Cullen folded his hands over his mouth.

“Take the good moments when you can, was all I was going to say. War can get ugly, and it can get ugly fast. I don’t think either of us need reminding of what happened in Kirkwall.” Varric set Bianca back on his lap, busying himself with the bow’s machinations once more.

Seeing as the conversation had drawn to a close, Cullen rose to his feet. He descended the staircase that led to the Herald’s quarters, not concerning himself with what scruples propriety might take with him. Only a few bothered to cast a glance in his direction. Perhaps they were already aware of his relationship with the Herald, or reduced the visit to the Commander calling upon the lass to review another sizable pile of reports.

He rapped on the solid wood of the door, somewhat taken aback by how promptly Gaerwyn threw it open. Her eyes were wide, and her face drained of color.

“May I come in?” he asked, glancing over her shoulder to see a vast array of alchemical supplies arranged on her tables.

Gaerwyn stepped aside, gesturing for him to enter. He did, immediately assaulted by the pungent aroma of elfroot, blood lotus, and embrium.

“You’re not usually so indifferent when coming to visit my quarters directly,” she said, turning her attention to grinding elfroot into a fine paste. “Is everything alright?” she asked, smashing her thumb with the pestle. “Andraste’s flaming ass!” she screeched, cradling her hand.

“Let me have a look,” he said, reaching for her.

“No, no, I’m fine.” She laughed a bit too loudly. “Perfectly over the moon.”

“Gaerwyn, what’s the matter?”

“Why, nothing, my dear Commander.” She scraped the contents of the mortar into a bowl of similarly handled ingredients. “I’m preparing potions for tomorrow. Can’t expect Adan to do all the work, now could we? Why would anything be the matter? What is bothering you, my dear?”

“I’m concerned you’re going to end up breaking a finger right now. Slow down.” Cullen placed a hand on her shoulder, quietly requesting permission to hold her. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing at all!” She forced the singsong intonations of her voice to the point where her assurances cracked. “I’m fine. Perfectly… fine…” She leaned her head into Cullen’s chest. “I’m not fine… I am so far from being even marginally well.”

Against his chest, Cullen could feel Gaerwyn shaking.

“I…” She began to speak, finding the words stuck in her throat. “Hold me- I mean, you’re probably busy, I did not intend to inconvenience you. Forgive me-“

Cullen wrapped his arms around her quaking body, taking note of how he could feel her ribs under his hand. How long had she been panicking like this? The two had shared in multiple meals in the past week, so he there was little doubt in his mind that she was eating.

“You are not an inconvenience,” he murmured into her hair. Her legs finally gave out, and together they slowly descended to the cobbled floor.

“Cullen... I… tomorrow…” She was searching for a way to broach the topic while also not being completely without tact, but came up fruitless. “Maker, why is it that every one of these missions has me reduced to a puddle of jelly? You’d think I would get used to the risk associated with these sorts of things. Cullen, forgive me. You already have so many pressing matters to deal with, and I’m only adding more to the pot.”

She made an attempt to stand, only to have Cullen rest his hands over the crooks of her elbows. “You are not an inconvenience,” he repeated, his voice little more than a low growl. “We have placed a sizable burden on your shoulders. It’s only natural that you would be anxious.”

“What of you?” she asked, pressing a bare hand to his cheek. The stubble was soothing against her palm. “You are charged with the lives of every soldier here. I see the way you look at a recruit who fumbles about. It isn’t with annoyance… you worry.”

Cullen leaned into her touch, kissing her wrist tenderly. “I do worry. There have been a few sleepless nights where I lay in bed trying to figure out how to do something better. I’ve sought you out then, and, well, you’re there for me.”

“Cullen… you’re looking at me now like you would one of those recruits,” she said. As if to validate her statement, the Commander promptly turned his gaze elsewhere. “It’s alright,” Gaerwyn continued. “Vivienne made a passing comment, or at least tried to. She wanted to make me aware of my chances of survival.”

She lifted up the hand which bore the Mark. The pale green light illuminated her features and betrayed the signs of exhaustion painting her face.

“It didn’t help matters when Vivienne requested that I write my last testament—“ Cullen pulled her into a tight embrace, the action automatic and done with a breathless amount of conviction. 

“You will live,” he began, placing all of his faith into that one statement. “Pumpkin needs her mother.”

Gaerwyn broke out into a fit of trilling laughter, her howls of amusement like bells echoing throughout the room. She pressed a hand over her mouth, muffling the giggles but doing little to prevent the loud snort that followed.

Her laughter faded to a remnant smile. She nudged Cullen’s forehead with her own, releasing a gentle sigh when he returned the gesture. The two remained entwined in an embrace, their breathing the only sound echoing between their bodies. For a long while, they remained as such, focusing solely on the calm of the moment: the fire crackling in the hearth, the droning monotony of soldiers and pilgrims alike, and the lingering scents of herbs in the air. At the center of this maelstrom of chaos, the Commander and the Herald reveled in the one stray moment of peace they found themselves ensnared in.

\--

“Josephine.” Gaerwyn approached the Lady Ambassador, letters in hand. “Here.”

“Oh, what are these?” she inquired.

“Vivienne suggested that I write letters to those who I might not see again,” Gaerwyn replied. Lady Montilyet’s usually well-constructed demeanor blanched. “It makes sense, I suppose. It’s odd, writing a letter as if you’re dead. These four are for my family,” she continued, holding up four envelopes of the sizable stack. “Two should find their way to the Trevelyan estate. One for my parents and one for my brother.”

As the Herald explained, she placed each missive in Josephine’s grasping hand. The woman stared at her with a look of sheer incredulity flooding her gaze. “This one should be directed to the Chantry my sister resides in.” Three letters. 

“This should go to my brother in Val Royeaux. His patron should be capable of directing it to him.” Four letters.

“Please send this one to the First Enchanter of the Ostwick Circle. That may be a bit more complicated. I have faith in you and Leliana, all the same.” Five letters.

“This one is for you. Please don’t open it until you’re certain.” Six Letters.

“This is for Leliana.” Seven.

“These eight are for the remainder of the Inner Circle. Don’t look at me that way. I hate leaving matters unfinished. I suppose it’s comical, but I would rather look a fool than leave something unsaid.” So many letters.

“And… this one is for Cullen. It’s a bit longer than the others… there was so much that I've wanted to tell him, but so little time.”

Gaerwyn placed the final letter into Josephine’s waiting hand. “I already gave Adan his. He promptly threw it into the fireplace and told me to ‘stop spouting such idiotic drivel.’”

“Lady Trevelyan- Gaerwyn, forgive me, I’m just overwhelmed,” Josephine began in a stutter. “Why are you preparing…”

“My survival has never been a guaranteed outcome,” the Herald replied grimly. “I’m simply preparing for the worst. If I do live through this next mission, then please return these letters. I would like to have them in my keeping. Until a situation similar to this arises.”

“What will you do then?”

“I would request that if I do not perish in this mission, but during another, that you distribute these letters as I have directed. Will you do this for me?”

Josephine stared down at the stack of farewells and apologies and unspoken tenderness. “Of course, your Worship.”

“Thank you, Josephine. For everything.”

The Lady Ambassador finally snapped. She flung her arms around the Herald, smashing her into a tight embrace. “It has been an honor, Herald,” she whispered. “Stay alive. Or so help me, I will drag you out of the Fade myself.”

Gaerwyn smiled, the curving of her lips never reaching her eyes. There was little doubt that the Ambassador meant every word of what she said. The promise was more threatening than it should be, but the sincerity was there. “Of course, Lady Montilyet.”

\--

“What are you doing in here?” Cullen asked. He had only just opened his chamber door to see Gaerwyn leaning against his desk. His travel pack rested on the nearby plush chair, out of its designated place. “And what did you do to my satchel?”

“Insurance,” Gaerwyn responded. She pushed herself off of the desk’s edge and approached the Commander with a swaying step. “Would you have a drink with me?”

She lifted a bottle of wine up, the finish sealed with red wax. Cullen couldn’t tell what year it was, but was aware of the liquer's strawberry tang when Gaerwyn broke the seal and removed the cork.

“A glass wouldn’t hurt,” he replied.

Cullen fetched the wine glasses he typically stored in his chambers, setting the two on the desk. “What’s the occasion?” he asked, watching the mage poured them each a generous amount of the rosy spirit.

“Does there need to be one?” she responded to his question with another. Was she avoiding answering him intentionally? Handing him a glass, she lifted up her own and brought it to her lips.

“No, I suppose not.” He smiled. With Gaerwyn sitting on the desk’s edge, Cullen took the plush chair before her. Odd that he had not considered sitting in it up until now. While it was far too garish for his tastes, he couldn’t deny that it was very agreeable. The chair he typically occupied had molded to his form, relinquishing the luxury of comfort. If not for the Herald's presence, the Commander may have fallen asleep. In fact, her being in the room might not prevent that.

“Stay safe tomorrow,” she finally said.

“Gaerwyn, I can’t foresee what will happen—“

“I don’t care,” she replied. She looked him squarely in the eye. “Promise me you will live. No matter what tomorrow holds, I want the surest thing to be your survival.”

Cullen remained silent. He watched as the mage drank down three quarters of her glass, and then sharply set it down. She reached for the bottle once more, most likely in an effort to mask her thoughts. As long as she didn’t look at him, Cullen would only be able to rely on her body language to convey what he needed to know. Her shoulders were drawn together and her jaw was set rather firmly, as if to prevent an onslaught of shaking. Pensive.

“Alright,” he ceded. “I promise. I will make every effort to come back…” _To you._ The words were not spoken but seemed to linger, all the same.

“I suppose that will be the only promise I can wring out of you,” she said, a wry smile easing the tension from her features. “Maker’s breath, please kiss me.”

Cullen was more than happy to accommodate the Herald’s request. He set his wineglass to aside, and then moved to close the space between the two of them. His hands found her waist, and eased her to him. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing a kiss to his throat. He stooped down to take her lips with his, receiving a gentle hum in response.

She pulled herself up onto the balls of her feet. Cullen swept the tip of his tongue across her lower lip, to which she reciprocated by opening her mouth and allowing him entrance. She giggled into the kiss when Cullen drifted his hands up to cup her jaw and stroked the exposed flesh of her neck.

“I love your laugh,” he murmured.

“And my snorting?”

“Adorable.”

“Flatterer.”

“Only you.”

“Always you,” she said, sighing softly, contentedly.

He snaked an arm around her waist, pulling her into his embrace. He had removed his armor earlier in the evening, which allowed for Gaerwyn to melt into the contours of his body with relative ease. Their shared body heat was utterly intoxicating. He could feel her warm breath on his lips as her mouth met his in another kiss. A pooling heat was gathering in his stomach. Gaerwyn’s hands were curled into the fabric of his shirt, where the feel of her fingers was impressed into his skin. He sat down onto the chair, pulling Gaerwyn into his lap. She straddled his legs, pressing tender kisses to his mouth.

“Pumpkin needs her father,” she whispered, the joke eliciting a soft chuckle from her Commander.

“Alright. I suppose I'll have to live for that little terror,” he said, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Stay the night?” Cullen asked.

“Is that alright? You have to see that the troops are mobilized tomorrow. Not to mention that I won’t exactly be able to slip away with the Chantry abuzz with people,” she said, already slipping off her enchanter’s coat.

“Hang propriety and hang rumors,” he responded, casting a roguish smile her way.

Gaerwyn grinned. She sat on the edge of the desk, propping one leg over the other. She unlaced her boot, wriggling out of the footwear with a sharp kick. Glancing up from her ministrations, she caught sight of Cullen removing his shirt.

“Commander!” she gasped playfully. “Are you attempting to seduce me?”

As if recalling her presence, Cullen clutched the fabric to his chest. “I- um, just let me—“

Gaerwyn crossed the length of the room, attracted by Cullen’s sudden onset of bashfulness. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” she said. “I’m going to settle in for the night.” She pressed a kiss to his lips and proceeded to the bedside.

The rustling of bed covers informed the Commander that she was in bed. He looked over to see that the mage had turned on her side, her gaze trained on the starry night visible through the window. A show of respect for his privacy, he wondered?

He slipped in beside the Herald, crossing his arms over her chest. “No shirt?” she asked.

“It didn’t seem necessary,” he replied, nuzzling into her shoulder.

“You’re right about that,” Gaerwyn purred. “Honestly, you could have come to bed wearing nothing. I wouldn’t have objected.”

His shoulders shook with laughter. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The Commander drifted off with the Herald in his arms. The sounds of the night intermingling with her soft, shallow breathing soon lulled him into the thralls of sleep.

\--

_She had lost track of the days. The chamber was without windows, making it impossible to watch the natural progression of time. Her arms were bound together with a frayed length of rope, cutting off the circulation to her hands and creating an ache in her shattered wrist. She leaned against the chilled surface of a mirror, taking some comfort in having contact with the smooth texture. When her mind began to cloud over with pain, fatigue, and hunger, she would place the flat of her palm against the looking glass. At least then she could remain partially grounded in the reality of her situation._

_The demon prowled the room, checking the barricaded door for the umpteenth time. Upon retrieving Gaerwyn, the demon dragged her into a room reserved for lectures and demonstrations, and proceeded to create a barrier of desks, bookshelves, and any other miscellaneous items that happened to be present. Two busts of Andraste bearing forth a bowl of flame had been added to the pile, fractured in various places. Gaerwyn found that her gaze was constantly drifting back to the Prophet’s severed head, a tail of marble fragments curving off of it like bread crumbs._

_It was an intelligent move. The chamber had several wards set in place that ensured that spells gone awry could not escape… or enter, for that matter. The door had several enchantments woven into the wood, all of which pulsed and glowed under close inspection. Like silver chain links in mail._

_A barrage of thunderous shouts and fists was issued from the hallway. Gaerwyn could feel the tug of the Fade being shaped beyond the door, focused into primal magic._

_**“Templars,”** the creature hissed, the machinations of her jaw setting into a snarl. **“They’d see you die if it meant ending me. You have no worth in their eyes.”**_

_The monster was starting again. Extended stints of time had passed with the demon sitting across from the young mage, spitting cruel words that cut Gaerwyn to the core._

_**“You are just a worthless little waif. A wolf in sheep’s clothes. You were locked away with the rest of your ilk to waste away and die. If they break through my blockade and kill me, you’ll die as well.”** _

_“I’ll die either way,” Gaerwyn replied, running a tongue over her blood crusted teeth. She was certain that her face was swollen with purple welts. Gifts bequeathed unto her by the demon._

_**“Watch your tongue,”** the demon said with a sneer. **“You are nothing! Do you honestly believe that anyone who loved you would lock you away? Your family abandoned you to live a life on a shelf, gathering dust with the rest. That isn’t the act of a loving parent. That’s the act of being casting off like a parasite.”** The demon rose, finding that the occupied vessel wasn’t cooperating with the demands made of it._

_**“I was there…”** the creature continued, stepping to the center of the room. **“When the Maker shaped your world. We were told we couldn’t create anything of worth, because we were only mimicking his creation. When he made your like, he turned his back on us. How I longed for his gaze to fall upon me once more. If I can prove myself here, perhaps…”**_

_“A demon of desire,” Gaerwyn murmured. “It makes sense. You want what you can’t have.”_

_**“Shut your mouth, you little shit!”** A hand connected with the mage’s cheek. **“I will usher forth my brethren, and we will prove that we are worthy!”**_

_“But you aren’t. You’re just a wisp of Fade twisted into a corrupted ideal,” she returned, her features void of emotion._

_The demon’s jaw clenched, the visible muscles tensing. **“Be quiet,”** the creature hissed. The vessel’s hand had been warped into a bird-like visage. Blackened talons dripped from her fingers, chipped and coated in blood. Scores of cuts and scratches covered the young mage and left her indifferent to the threat._

_“No,” Gaerwyn said, her words seething with hatred. “I care little for your fallacious argument or your parental issues. Honestly, you should try to come to terms with your pitiful existence while—“ The demon grabbed her by the front of her robe and slammed her into the looking glass._

_She could feel the surface fracture against her, and shards rattle free from the frame. The demon drew her back only to slam her back against the looking glass with renewed force. A cry of anguish flew from her lips, giving the creature reason to pause. Flinging Gaerwyn to the ground, the demon swept off to the other side of the room._

_Patting around blindly, the mage sought out a sizable chunk of mirror with her bound hands._

_**“A pity our acquaintanceship had to be cut short,”** the demon said. From the corner of her eyes, Gaerwyn saw the glint of steel shine by the candlelight. Her finger nudged a shard. She rolled over, ignoring the screaming pain lancing through her wrist and side. While the demon tested the knife blade’s bite on a tattered spell tome, Gaerwyn began to saw at the rope. Maker, why had she taken so long to fight back? In between the blackouts brought on by blood loss and pain, there hadn’t been much time to think up an idea. Not when the demon’s attention was almost constantly trained on Gaerwyn._

_The mage glanced over to the corner of the room, bile rising up in her throat upon taking in the twisted visage of a senior enchanter. He was here when the demon had claimed the chamber as a lair. He saw Gaerwyn. Tried to save her._

_**“If you give up now,”** the demon began, **“then the ritual won’t be so… painful. My rending a hole in the Veil will depend on your willingness. Certainly, I can alter your mind to allow me to do so, but you’ve managed to resist thus far. I wasn’t interested in using blood magic on something that was so simple. And enjoyable. I would have preferred breaking you on my own terms.”**_

_Gaerwyn managed to cut through half of the rope’s girth._

_When she glanced up a second time, the demon nose was mere inches from her own. **“Just give up.”** The words lisped over the vessel’s lips, causing fresh blood clots to dislodge from its face. Several threads of bloody mucus began to trek down the chin of the possessed._

_The rope went slack around her wrists. Clutching the shard like a vice, Gaerwyn met the demon’s stare._

_“Never.” She plunged the shard into the vessel’s neck in one swift, vicious move. A pang of guilt riddled her conscience when their eyes met once more. It wasn’t the demon there. For that one breath of a moment, it was the vessel. Her eyes were rounded with desperation and horror. At the blow dealt to her or the grievances she had committed whilst the demon held control, Gaerwyn did not know. She didn’t take the time to consider._

_The mage was on her feet and bolting for the barricade by the time the demon reclaimed control of the body. Making the gestures and speaking in a tongue that could shift mountains, Gaerwyn wove an incantation that settled a net of flames onto the barrier. All that was flammable was set alight. She concentrated the flames into a dense ball of magic. She tampered with the properties of the blaze. Just enough that once she released her hold, the explosion that followed would clear the entrance to the chamber._

_**“Don’t you dare!”** The last word was punctuated with a knife entering Gaerwyn's chest. The creature had missed her heart in its blinded state of rage. Gaerwyn’s focus did not waver. She released her grip on the primal forces and proceeded to manifest a barrier called forth from the Fade. The explosion was enough to interfere with her balance, but her defensive spell held fast. She was untouched by the spreading blaze and the splintering debris._

_The room was bathed in fire. The demon’s screams of anguish flooded out the shouts of the Templars and mages entering the room. They proceeded to encircle the demon while remaining out of reach. Like one would a wounded animal. Gaerwyn’s vision was beginning to weigh down on her. Blood was staining her front in a gradually increasing pool of dark red._

_**“I refuse to be banished back to that wasteland…”** the demon huffed. The vessel’s flesh was mottled black from the flames. The hair was seared off of her head, leaving a charred cap of skin. The yellow eyes were reduced to blackened sockets, the pupils barely intact. Just two points of bilious yellow. **“Nor will I die here, amongst you rodents!”** _

_“Elliann, please, fight this.” A Templar stepped forward, his voice the embodiment of sorrow. “You would never do this to Gaerwyn.”_

_**“Elliann is dead!”** The demon raised its arms in mockery. Elliann’s skeleton groaned and crackled like a charred tree branch. **“Gone, Templar!”** _

_“She’s still there,” Gaerwyn said, choking on the smoke clogging the room. She stepped forward, only to be stopped by another mage. “Lydia, I need to end this. She’s suffering. Can’t you hear her spirit screaming and tearing at its binds?"_

_“Yes, sweetling,” she murmured. “But this isn’t your burden to assume.”_

_“I’m not asking.” Gaerwyn wrenched free of Lydia’s cradling arms. She bolted for the demon’s discarded dagger. It burned the skin of the mage’s palm, the explosion making it searing hot to the touch, but she pushed down the pain with a vicious resolve._

_She ran for the demon, unhindered by Templar and mage alike. It all happened so quickly. She crossed the breadth of the chamber, meeting the demon where it stood rooted in agony. Driving the blade into Elliann’s heart with one powerful stab, Gaerwyn ended the demon’s siege on the tower._

_“I love you, Elliann,” she said, keeping the dagger firmly planted in her mentor's heart._

_“And I love you, Honeybee," came the pained replied. Gaerwyn looked into Elliann’s deep blue eyes. Eyes that were like the deepest blue dyes sold in Val Royeaux. Eyes that were like the shadows on mountains. Eyes that betrayed a surfeit of love and compassion. Eyes that mingled with burning gold. Eyes that refused to betray who had spoken._

_“I’m sorry,” the young mage whispered, eyes burning with tears._

_“No. I’m so proud…”_

_Elliann breathed her last. Gaerwyn fell with her passed mentor, cradling the body in her arms._

_She wondered if in the demon’s final moments, the creature had assumed some aspect of her mentor. The sort of characteristics that might encourage a mage to try and sustain Elliann’s body with healing magic. She had little time to contemplate._

_The Templar to call out in a desperate plea to the demon lifted Gaerwyn into his arms. In silence, the two watched as Lydia stepped forward and set her mentor’s body aflame. It was necessary. Protocol, even. Without a body to inhabit, the fiend would have no connection to the world separated beyond the Veil. The Knight-Captain spoke over the hushed silence. A pained eulogy for the fallen._

_“Alexandre, she’s dead,” Gaerwyn whispered. “How will the Knight-Captain manage?”_

_“I do not know, little one,” the Templar replied in all earnestness. “Come. Let’s see that you’re healed.”_

_“No, no. Don’t make me leave. I’ll never see her again. No! Take me back!” Gaerwyn writhed in Alexandre’s arms to no avail. The chamber door closed behind them. From the room's confines, the mage heard the Knight-Captain complete his prayer._

_All went dark._

\--

Cullen awoke to the sudden shifting of the bed beneath him. He rolled over, eyes heavy with sleep. He was aware that the space beside him was unoccupied, and that the mage had extricated herself from their shared embrace. Needless to say, he was worried.

“Gaerwyn.” He reached for the mage to find a hand suddenly in his. He forced himself to wake the rest of the way.

The woman was curled forward, the bed covers pooled around her center. Her knees were brought up to support her head as she tried to calm herself.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“I… had a nightmare,” she replied, her voice near inaudible. She didn’t meet his gaze. Her breathing was rapid, as if she were chased out of the Fade.

Cullen pulled himself into a sitting position. Warily, he reached out, placing a hand on her back.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked. He rubbed gentle circles over her tensed spine. Underneath his touch, he felt her muscles slacken. Gaerwyn turned her gaze up to her Commander and tried to smile. On all accounts, she failed in her effort to brush off the night terrors.

“I’m alright,” she said. “Can we stay like this? Just for a little?”

“Of course. Can I come closer?”

“I would like that.”

Cullen eased himself over to the mage, wrapping his arms around her small, shivering frame. All the while, he soothingly stroked her back and spoke in gentle reassurances. Little time passed before Gaerwyn slipped into the space between her Commander's legs, pressing herself against him, and nestling her head into the curve of his shoulder. She closed her eyes, praying that her dreams would not be rife with past horrors. If only for tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was supposed to define Gaerwyn's apprehension over what could occur during the march on the Breach, and sort of explain what may be one of the causes for the anxiety. I struggle a lot to think that a person couldn't, at the very least, be nervous about being placed in a dangerous setting.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading!
> 
> Comments give me life and tell me how I can improve my writing. I would love to know what you think. Thank you!


	19. Standing on the Precipice (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaerwyn says her farewells to a person she holds dear. She learns more about Tristan. She closes the Breach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... two days late in posting. But I posted!
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading and staying with me for this long.

The path to the Temple of Sacred ashes was swarming with demons. With the Breach having been left open for so long, it was only a surprise that there wasn’t an army lying in wait.

“The troops will escort the mages up the pass once the forward party has cleared out the demons,” Cullen informed his subordinate officers. “By the Herald’s insistence, she and her unit shall accompany the forward party.” He glanced over to the lass, who smiled at him with a guileless innocence. Insistence was a weak word, when it came to her planting herself in front of him and stating her intentions quite adamantly. Still, she was an effective agent who had an adept knowledge of how to combat the forces of the Fade. She would not be assisting in heading the Inquisition’s forces simply to keep him company.

“Shall we?” she asked him, inclining her head towards the pass.

“There is little point in delaying any longer,” he agreed. With a rallying roar, Cullen called the Inquisition forces to attention. He gestured towards the designated path with his blade, and the rush to the temple commenced.

Gaerwyn, Cassandra, Solas, and Varric easily melted into the troop movements. Though much of their work involved being separate from the main force, they moved effortlessly when with the pack. The Inner Circle had spent multiple days running drills with the remainder of the Inquisition army, pressed to do so in the case of a march like this. While they had expressed discomfort over the thought of a larger, bulkier formation, they had attuned themselves with the synchronicity of the army well enough.

A throng of demons poured into the pass, roaring and seething and raging over invasion of their territory. They were like prodded beasts that would attack even at the slightest of provocations. Spirits that had been twisted and altered by a range of various, and malicious, emotions- that’s all demons were.

A crack of lightning careened over Cullen’s head and hit the first three demons with deadly accuracy. Gaerwyn managed to fell one of the creatures, and enrage the remaining horde. He could feel threads of energy being drawn from the Fade, shaping into an element of the mage’s choosing. The Commander risked a glance over his shoulder. The mage stood with her staff readied before her, one hand outstretched and smoking with the discharge of her spell. He became aware of how the air seemed to be electrified around her, casting off the scent of storms and rain.

“I’m inscribing glyphs, tell the troops to watch their step and keep to the right,” she yelled to the Commander.

“You heard the Herald,” he called over his shoulder. “Hug the mountainside. Stay in formation!”

The air crackled with ice, and a fine sheen of frost formed on Gaerwyn’s gloves and staff. She slammed the butt of her staff into the ground, creating a wave of magical energy. That energy was directed into rings of archaic writing that bloomed forth in ripples. The demons who stepped into the confines of the glyphs were frozen in place, easy pickings for the troops.

A howl chilled the air, and from the horde a Despair demon leaped forth. Its grotesque face, solely composed of a massive mouth of jutting teeth, seemed to grin when it observed the humans racing towards slaughter. It imitated a pirouette and landed squarely in front of the approaching army. As the creature extended a hand, as if in welcome, Gaerwyn fired three bolts of magic in greeting. The force of the spell caught it off guard and created an opening for Cassandra. The Seeker promptly cut the demon down, a battle cry tearing from her lips.

“Can you put up a wall?” Cullen asked Gaerwyn. She responded by making a sweeping motion with the head of her staff, as if drawing a line in the soil. The pass was suddenly blocked by a barrier of icy blades, all of which reached out to embrace the approaching enemy. “Archers!” The Commander gestured the soldiers to take advantage of the wall provided.

Arrows sailed overhead, needling the enemy but doing little to deter them. The Inquisition forces were hardly prepared to fight demons. Trained to fight against individuals who were similarly mortal, yes, but demons? Varric shot a bolt into a rage demon’s molten body, giving it reason to pause if only for a moment. Solas took advantage of the creature’s incredulity and froze it in place.

“There are too many,” Cullen growled.

“Commander.” Gaerwyn turned to him, “Permission for my unit to detach and deal with the immediate threat.”

“Can you even-“ He met her steadfast gaze; her blazing green eyes never wavering. “Granted,” the word fell from his lips like a heavy weight. Was he sending this woman to her death?

Gaerwyn gestured sharply over her shoulder for her three companions to follow. She released a pulse of magical energy in the direction of the enemy. The shock caused the wall to shatter into crystalline shards. Without pausing, Gaerwyn fade stepped dead center into the mass of demons. The fiends she passed through froze; their position in the mountain pass was so precarious that some simply slid down the twisting path, smashing into pieces. Others were crushed by their demon cohorts due to careless flailing.

“Gaerwyn!” Cullen shouted out. Was she fool enough to try and take the hoard head on? From the mass of writhing demons, a ball of electric energy rose into the air, tendrils of energy coiling around the power source. In a flash of dazzling light, arms of lightning encircled the creatures in a prison of magic. Just before the snare was set, the mage fade stepped out of the writhing mass, one hand placed to the ground to steady her halt.

The demons unleashed screams of outright anguish as Gaerwyn’s spell took effect. She turned her attentions to a second Despair demon then, hurling a bolt of electricity with an incantation that singed the air. It made contact and knocked the creature off its guard. Varric completed the kill by sending a bolt into the demon’s skull.

To say that Cullen was impressed by the synchronicity displayed by Gaerwyn’s unit would have been an understatement. They would shout short commands back and forth to each other, much of which did not make sense to an outsider such as himself. The way the four wove in and out of the enemy units, watching the other’s back and acting as shields, was outright awe inspiring.

When the first wave of demons had been dealt with, Cullen ordered a forward attack. A wave of steel clashed upon a front of fang and talon with a resonating clangor. For all his doubts, his soldiers proved to excel in battle. Be it demon or mortal, Cullen was now certain that the Inquisition forces would march to victory. He permitted himself that moment of pride, at least.

An archer cried out in anguish as one of the enemy hurled a projectile her way. She landed on her side, her hands fumbling for a potion. Cullen broke formation and launched himself upon the demon. He made quick work of the Terror, his blade cutting through its sinewy limbs with little resistance.

“Are you alright?” Cullen pulled the lass to her feet, noting she had a nasty gash running down her side.

“Y-yes. I landed on my medicine pouch though…” She lifted a hand to reveal the compartment of her belt reserved for potions. The three vials were shattered. No doubt some of the shards were driven into her leg during the fall.

“Take these.” He thrust two vials of viscous red fluid into her hand.

“Ser—“

“Return to formation!” He melted back into battle, cutting down a demon with some additional effort. He only had two more vials attached to his belt. He couldn’t risk being careless.

Two other soldiers could make that risk, though. One of whom landed in his arms, a sizable laceration stained his shoulder. Cullen helped the swordsman drink down the third vial of medicine, his belt feeling disturbingly light.

While the Commander could manage a battle of this magnitude without acquiring massive injury, some of the recruits were not so capable. He counted three fallen. Three he couldn’t aid in time. A fourth, he managed to reach prior to a demon landing the killing blow. That one, he saved… at the cost of his last potion.

His back had been turned on the enemy in his hurry to aid the soldier. A careless mistake. One he had worked tirelessly to breed out of those under his command. A clawed hand grappled onto his shoulder, dragging him to the ground. Cullen had to stand. If he didn’t, he would be trampled. The demon placed one foot atop the Commander’s breastplate. Blood was pooling under his left pauldron, burning hot against his flesh.

A sudden, indignant screech rent the air. This was promptly followed by a bolt of magic knocking the demon onto its back. Cullen took the enemy’s indiscretion as an advantage, and drove his blade into its throat.

“Insurance!” Gaerwyn yelled at him, over the writhing masses of demons and mortals.

There was a moment of confusion, followed with the Commander recalling the mage leaning against his desk the evening prior, his satchel laying close by… removed from its designated place. Cullen fumbled for his travel pack, nearly tearing it open in the process. Inside lay fifteen vials of healing potion. He ripped the cork out of one, slaking his thirst with the thick red liquid. The tang of elfroot twisted across his tongue, leaving an unpleasant aftertaste in its wake. The bleeding ceased and the injury had mended, more or less. He would need to have it examined upon returning to Haven.

Maker’s breath, she had saved his life. Chances are she had already saved a few more soldiers at that. He permitted himself a flicker of a glance to the mage. She sent five demons hurtling off a steep cliff, effectively saving the warriors that had taken point. In turn, those same soldiers guarded her back. It was beyond irking to see that she had taken to the front lines, but Cullen’s concerns were promptly allayed when she melted into the formation and raised a barrier around them.

Maker’s breath, she would be the death of him yet!

It was only a matter of time before the pass was cleared of the enemy. The Inquisition forces took a brief five minutes to account for injuries and remaining supplies. Gaerwyn wiped a streak of black ichor from her cheek, leaving a trailing smear. Her breath was coming in haggard gasps while streaks of sweat ran down her nose and neck.

“Herald.” Cullen approached her, making a genuine effort to appear professional. She nodded to him.

“I didn’t expect to expend myself so,” she said with a laugh.

“Here.” He offered her the leather canteen he carried on his person. Gaerwyn said a quick word of thanks before taking a long drag of water. “Better?” he asked as she returned his belonging.

Gaerwyn nodded, the color gradually returning to her features. Her breathing was steadier, more consistent.

A scout had rushed up the path leading from Haven, dancing about the corpses and shards of ice now strewn in the forward party’s wake. “Ser! Sister Leliana wishes to inquire about the pass’s safety. If the pass is secure, she will proceed in mobilizing the mages.”

“Inform her that all has gone accordingly thus far. She may direct the mages to the temple, but is advised to do so with care,” Cullen replied. The scout took his leave, racing back to the Spymaster.

“It’s almost over,” Gaerwyn said. Her features maintained a trained neutrality. She reached into her tunic, withdrawing the ironbark pendant by its chain. There was a breach in her expression that allowed for the Commander to see a gentle, sadness edging her mouth and eyes.

“Commander! Four dead and seven injured. We have enough healing draughts to sustain us through another major battle. I sent a bird to Haven requesting that one of the reserve parties deliver additional supplies,” Cullen’s lieutenant said. A former Templar, like himself.

Cullen ordered the Inquisition forces forward, casting Gaerwyn a soft smile before allowing his features to harden once more. It was only a matter of time before they reached the temple. Only a matter of time until the Herald would seal the Breach. What would happen after, he wondered. Would she survive this ordeal? The thought of her dying turned his stomach. He pushed his apprehensions into the farthest reaches of his mind and tried to swallow the pit forming in his throat.

\--

The wind breezing through the temple was cold, kicking up ash and debris. A low howling was emitted from the chamber directly beneath the Breach. No doubt there would be demons lying in wait. According to Scout Harding, the enemy’s numbers were hardly overwhelming. Perhaps fifteen demons were spread from the entrance of the temple to the last stretch of corridor.

The demons were easily dealt with, Cullen having trained the Inquisition forces to respond well to near any threat, a compliment he would modestly deny. As the forward party conducted a final sweep of the general vicinity, checking the corpses for signs of possession and the like, Gaerwyn ushered her small company onward.

Gaerwyn’s steps became all the more labored. Her throat took on the sensation of being lined with cotton. She couldn’t breathe. She lifted her hand to where her scarf usually encircled her neck and clenched her fingers around nothing. Forcing her hand back down to her side, Gaerwyn pressed forward. Making the turn into the last stretch of corridor, she was soon let out onto the small platform that overlooked the room.

As in the way of demons, there were none that presented themselves forthright. The sound of Red Lyrium thrumming, pulsing with venomous intent, filled the chamber. The scent cast off the large crystals was largely reminiscent of carrion leavings. It took every fiber of Gaerwyn’s being to keep her upright and not reduced to a state of retching. She descended the staircase that led to the chamber’s floor, hopping down when she encountered where the steps sundered.

“It’s so quiet…” Gaerwyn murmured, her gaze trained on the Breach overhead.

“What were you expecting? A steady flow of demons?” Cassandra inquired.

“The reports sent back by the soldiers who patrolled the lower portion of the pass certainly made it sound like that. I’ll count this as a blessing.”

“Herald,” Leliana’s voice rang through the chamber like birdsong. She stepped into view moments later, a sizable entourage of mages trailing after her. “I see we reached the Temple at a rather ideal time. One of the lulls.”

“Lulls?”

“My scouts reported that there were times when the Breach was oddly inactive. It’s largely variant, of course, and I thought it a waste to risk lives just to track when it chooses to act up,” the Spymaster explained. “Now, we have much to prepare. Solas, would you be willing to assist the mages?”

The elf inclined his head in a slight nod. He approached the mages in his quiet and collected manner, his head bowed in polite deference. Of course, the gesture was only done out of obligatory diplomacy. Solas had explained on a previous occasion that taking orders from an elf, regardless of him being a fellow mage, was viewed with no small measure of disdain.

It was only a matter of minutes before ten crates brimming with lyrium were carried into the chamber by the allied mages. They proceeded to distribute the crystalline concoction, the odor of cloying metal and lightning thickening in the air as it spread. Gaerwyn glanced to where Cullen stood sentry. He appeared unperturbed by the ore, save for the few beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

“My lady.” Fiona approached her, a sizable bottle of Lyrium lofted up in one hand. “Will you be partaking?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “My mentor was adamantly against using the stuff. I have something of an aversion to it myself.”

“My lady, you bear the largest risk. Are you certain?”

Gaerwyn nodded. “I thank you for the thought, Enchanter.”

The mages assembled as Solas instructed, he urging them to focus their power upon the Herald. Gaerwyn turned her gaze upward and felt her mouth go dry. The Breach stared back at her like a massive eye, flickering with the ethereal light of the Fade.

She could run… couldn’t she?

Someone else could take up her burden.

Would they?

_I am the One._

“Fuck,” Gaerwyn muttered under her breath, an exhausted smile wavered uncertainly on her lips.

“At your ready, Herald,” Solas said over his shoulder.

Gaerwyn inhaled. She lifted her hand above her head and waited for the Fade’s energy to latch onto the Mark. The usual pull was unmistakable. It was as if the realm beyond the Breach was making every effort to drag her into a deadly embrace.

A tendril of powerful magic proceeded to tether the mage, emitting a shrill hiss upon the connection being made. She grit her teeth against the searing pain that boiled underneath her flesh and slowly crept up her arm. She could feel the supportive hold of the mages at her back, they keeping her bound to the mortal coil. The pungent tang of Lyrium and magic was growing all the more pronounced.

_Honeybee…_

The word was a whisper caressing her neck. The pull of the Fade was beginning to tax on her mind, evidently.

_Honeybee… shut the door._

Perhaps the sensation of a hand steadying her wrist was her imagination. Perhaps it was the blood leaving her upheld arm. Yet she found solace in the thought that she wasn’t entirely alone. That even beyond this world of flesh and bone, an old friend would look back to hold her steady.

The Mark screamed with a surfeit of magic. Her palm burned, as if her flesh was alive and clawing at the muscle beneath.

_Close the door. Close it now!_

With one concerted gesture, Gaerwyn flexed her fingers into a balled fist and wrenched her hand back- as if she were slamming a door. The blast that followed knocked the mage off of her feet. The rush of air and banished magic most likely sent everyone else into toppled messes of limbs and shrieks.

All the same, the room wasn’t quite so weighted with damp energy. Gaerwyn drew in a breath, welcoming the cool tang of the mountain air. The taste of pine trees and ash was buoyed up on an easy wind.

She felt two supportive hands clasp her around the waist and help her rise.

“It’s over,” Cassandra whispered. The two women shared a sigh, feeling the burden of the world melt from their shoulders.

The background was animated with victorious roars. There would be a celebration later, no doubt.

Unfortunately, there were bodies to burn first.

\--

Black smoke clogged the air and stung in the throats of onlookers. Well over fifty pyres had been constructed outside of Haven’s gates, the victims of the Conclave explosion slowly melting into ash. Mother Giselle and several other Chantry representatives raised their combined voices in the Chant, blessing the deceased’s journey through the Fade.

Gaerwyn managed to convince Mother Giselle to overlook Samahl’s body and leave the remains in the Herald’s keeping. The mage was bent on seeing that her friend was buried by her clan and not subjected to cremation. She could recall how uneasy Samahl was when first learning how humans disposed of their dead. There was a slight twinge of frustration in Gaerwyn’s chest when she recognized that Samahl would not be the only Dalish present in the Conclave’s death toll. Yet there was no way to identify the bodies. Not when all were rendered almost completely identical, with next to no identifying articles surviving the blast. The amount of nameless corpses was mounting in an overwhelming death toll.

“Here.” Gaerwyn held out a small urn.

“You have our thanks,” the young woman said, making a genuine effort to muster a smile.

“This is Tristan’s staff. I’m certain he would have wanted you three to have it.”

Tristan’s family wasn’t what one might consider traditional. Not being blood relatives and being involved in seedier business realms, required them to value discretion over all else. According to Lorelai, who introduced herself as Tristan’s younger sister, the four had grown up on the streets of Denerim together. All urchins who fled from a Chantry orphanage upon discovering Tristan’s unconventional gift for magic. They wanted to stay together, Lorelai explained.

“He wrote about you, you know,” Isaac, the eldest of the three, said. A man arguably of thirty years with sad brown eyes. Isaac lifted the staff up, testing the weight. His hands and forearms were scored with burn marks, marking him as a blacksmith.

“Oh?” Gaerwyn raised an eyebrow in a show of skepticism.

“Good things, we promise. He was rather fond of you.”

“With all due respect—“

“It was an admiration from afar, I should say. He wrote about you. How he wanted to reverse the Rite of Tranquility,” Isaac continued. “I think it goes without saying that he resorted to some rather unorthodox measures. Did he…?”

“No,” Gaerwyn shook her head. “I was temporarily transferred to White Spire when the Rite was lifted.”

“Ah.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You aren’t responsible for his actions,” the youngest, Frederick, said firmly. “We didn’t agree with his decision, but we couldn’t argue it over letter. Not when our exchange was being monitored by the Templars.”

Lorelai rifled through her skirt’s pocket. She withdrew a stack of fifteen or so letters, offering the missives to Gaerwyn.

“I know you weren’t particularly fond of Tristan –I don’t blame you, he could be a tit. Please read these when you find the time. Maybe his words will redeem him. Just a little.”

The mage bowed her head in a show of quiet gratitude. She took the gift and placed it into her satchel, patting the bag.

“He saved us, you know,” Frederick began. “From any number of attackers. Loan sharks, mercenaries, and whatever other lowlifes came after us. One got away, found the way to the Chantry. Can’t have two apostates running amok, now can we?” The bitterness lacing his words was hard to overlook.

“Two?”

“I might be able to conjure something here and there,” Lorelai mused. “I’m no threat, if you’re worried about that. We live in the mountains now. Away from most civilization.”

Isaac placed the staff in his sister’s hands. She held it aloft, somewhat uncertain. A mage who had never been trained to wield her magic then? Gaerwyn was disconcerted by the thought. If the lass could exercise control in all things, there wasn’t a vital need to learn how to handle a staff... but still.

“He’d want you to have it,” Gaerwyn said.

“Thank you, your Worship.” Frederick bowed his head. “We will need to take our leave now, I’m afraid.”

“Oh? You are more than welcome to stay for the celebration this evening,” the mage replied.

“We have much ground to cover, and daylight is waning fast,” Isaac intoned.

“This isn’t our accomplishment either. It… doesn’t seem to be in good taste to revel when we have lost someone so dear. Please return the letters when you have finished with them,” Lorelai finished.

The Herald nodded. “I understand. If you need supplies, see our quartermaster.”

The three travelers bowed to her, one hand over their hearts in a show of loyalty.

“Safe travels.”

\--

Cullen approached only after the three had taken their leave. The two brothers glared at him with some venom when he passed by earlier, and he didn’t want to risk that wrath turning on Gaerwyn.

“They aren’t staying?” he inquired. He brushed a hand over Gaerwyn’s arm, still riding the euphoria that followed her survival. She was alive. It took every fiber in his being not to pull her into an embrace, or trail kisses over her flesh.

Gaerwyn shook her head. “It’s probably for the best,” she said.

“This Tristan fellow, what was he like?” he asked.

She shrugged. “He was arrogant. So, utterly infuriating. He thought he could save everyone, and he wasn’t afraid to resort to questionable measures if the need called for it.”

“Is that why you hate him?”

The mage shook her head. “I don’t hate him. Or, well, to some degree I suppose I do. Cullen.” She lowered her voice. “Tristan practiced blood magic. He… had hoped that by mastering magic, that he could reverse the Rite of Tranquility by reshaping my mind.”

Cullen’s mouth fell into a thin line. His features mirrored Gaerwyn’s own when she first learned of Tristan’s intentions. His personal experiences with blood magic were far from pleasant. Even with a ten year buffer, the memories made his stomach churn.

“He wanted to alter my mind. In theory, it sounds appealing to some small degree. But, it sickens me some. Perhaps I’m biased, but to have someone try to lift the Rite in such a way? If he had, what’s to say he wouldn’t have changed something else about me? I only found out during our travels. Needless to say I reacted negatively to the thought of someone trying to change me with little understanding of what they were doing. He thought I was ungrateful, and became utterly insufferable.” Gaerwyn bit her lip. She averted her gaze. “I don’t know what to think. I’ve read studies conducted by observers who wrote about blood magic. They detailed how these subjects, these people, would come unhinged after having their minds tampered with. How the changes made were completely irreparable.”

Cullen wanted to hold her. He wanted nothing more than to take her into his arms and banish those thoughts. Yet he knew that wasn’t possible. He doubted any soul who once dwelled in the Circle had managed to escape unscathed. That was a blessing the Maker bequeathed few with. They all carried the scars of that time. Some worse than others, but all telling of similar experiences.

“I’m glad he didn’t –change you, I mean,” Cullen said. Maker, he sounded like such a fool.

“As am I,” she returned.

“I’m glad you’re alive,” he said. “The thought of losing you…”

“You don’t think you can be rid of me that easily, now can you?” she returned, adopting a jesting manner.

“I certainly hope not.” His tightly-wound nerves loosened.

“I think I’ll go mad if I have to maintain this ridiculous propriety,” she said with a loud sigh. Lowering her voice so that the typical humdrum of the camp could obscure her inquiry, she asked, “Are you free tonight?”

“My Lady Trevelyan, are you propositioning me?” he asked in mock horror.

“I am a shameless woman.” She acknowledged the claim with a shrug.

Cullen leaned in, his breath warm against her neck. To an outside observer, it would appear as if the Commander was whispering confidential information to the Herald. To the two standing so closely together, it was a chance to breathe. To ground the other with their shared contact.

“Let’s see how the evening plays out,” he murmured.

“So a solid maybe?” Gaerwyn mused.

“I certainly hope it’s more than that.” Her Commander laughed. He wasn’t able to entirely rid his statement of a stutter, or disguise the blush rising to his cheeks. All the same, he did long to be with her. She accepted him… yet she did not know the full extent of what had occurred at Kinloch Hold. Would she welcome him into her bed after learning what sort of disdain he directed at mages during his time at Kirkwall? He couldn’t fault her if she rescinded the offer, nor could he bear a grudge.

“Herald! The Thelassan clan has arrived,” a scout informed her. “They request your presence, and the body of their child.”

“They will have both,” Gaerwyn said. “I will be there shortly.”

She turned to Cullen. In a moment of exhilaration, she tossed propriety aside. The mage brushed her lips against his cheek before darting off, leaving the Commander a heated mess.

\--

She invited Cullen into her bed. Her bed! There was no denying she wanted him. She was well past that. Somewhere in Ostwick her mother was weeping, sensing that her daughter had spat in the face of tradition. She, a lady of noble blood, being the one to invite the man to engage in amorous activities. The mage grimaced upon applying such an academic term to act as a euphemism. That would be a monster of a habit to shake.

Waiting near the gate that led into the valley below was a small gathering of aravels. Perhaps ten at most. Gaerwyn had read that the land ships acted as transportation and homes for the People. The purpose would vary depending on the given circumstances. It was uncommon for the Dalish to remain in one place for an extended period of time. Varric claimed that the Sabrae clan remained in the mountains overlooking Kirkwall for at least five years. Though, Solas rebuked the statement, arguing that no Dalish would remain stationary for long.

“Herald? That is what your people call you, yes?” the Keeper Dirthara inquired. She stepped out of an aravel to greet the mage. The elf was at least a head shorter than Gaerwyn, carrying herself with an imperious air. Dirthara’s hair was pure white, save for the streaks of raven black expertly woven into braids.

“Yes.” She bowed her head in deference. “Though I was known as Gaerwyn to Samahl.”

The clan was small, composed of fewer than twenty elves. The risk of having more than two mages was too great. Gaerwyn would hazard to argue that the danger of even two mages could prove too much for these travelers.

“Our da’len was taken from us far too soon,” the elf said, “I regret to say I had a hand in her death. To think I condemned her to a prison of Sheml- humans. I beg your forgiveness. Some anger continues to linger.”

Keeper Dirthara gestured for two elves to step forward. One was clearly the Keeper’s first. She dressed in robes of similar design and supported a limp with the aid of a staff. The other was a hunter, with hardened features and scarred arms.

“My daughter,” the First managed to say, her features crumpling with pain.

Gaerwyn bowed once again. “Samahl was a dear friend of mine,” she said. “She left me with this.”

The thought of parting with the only remnant she had was agonizing. Yet it was not hers to covet. Gaerwyn withdrew the ironbark pendant from her tunic. She placed it in the waiting hands of the mourning mother, avoiding locking gazes as she did so.

“The ground here is frozen and harsh,” Dirthara murmured. “Yet we must see our child laid to rest. Her body…?”

The four scouts that had accompanied the Herald brought forth a body swathed in white linen. The bitter mountain air preserved Samahl- long enough for her to be returned to the People. They laid her before the Keeper, ensuring that the coverings did not fall away.

“I would look upon her face again,” the First insisted, stepping forward with hand outstretched.

“No.” Dirthara spoke the word as an order. “The body that lays before us is not your daughter. Let the memory of Samahl be the one that she left us with, not what lays before us.”

Chastened, the First stepped back into her partner’s embrace.

“Samahl spoke to me some of Dalish death rites. I ensured that the clothes she came to the Circle in were those that she will be buried wearing. Aromas she was fond of have been applied to her body. There is a clearing a ways from here,” Gaerwyn offered. “Perhaps the burial may take place there?”

She could not tell if she had crossed a clearly defined line in the Dalish’s eyes, or if they were pleased with the care the Herald had taken in preparing Samahl’s body.

“Yes. Dismiss your soldiers. I would have my own carry our child to her place of rest.”

The Herald took her leave of the forces. In utter silence, the clan made the trek leading into the thickly wooded area outside of Haven. Far enough from Chantry influence that there would be no interference in the burial and subsequent funeral.

“Here will suffice,” Dirthara said. She gestured for three Dalish scouts to take up spades and prepare a place for Samahl. “A night’s time would be permitted, given better circumstances. A night to say farewell to our departed. Yet we dare not linger here. Not with your Chantry so close.”

“If I may make a request, Keeper,” Gaerwyn began.

“An odd time, seeing as we have yet to even put our child into the ground,” Dirthara said, voice cool. “What do you ask of us?”

“I would like to show my gratitude to Samahl.” She gave a brief explanation of her intentions. The Keeper allowed a thin smile to ghost over her features.

“I believe that would be quite fitting.”

When the body had been placed into the hole, and a willow branch fitted into one fleshless hand, the First stepped forward. She slipped her hands beneath the linen, clasping Samahl’s pendant about her neck.

“Come, Elgara,” the Keeper called to her First. Dirthara aided the woman in rising out of the grave. “Our funerals consist of singing and celebrating the one who passed,” she told Gaerwyn. “Death is simply a part of life. To mourn would be denying this truth.”

The hole was filled with five feet of dirt. A seedling was placed above where Samahl’s heart would lay beneath the soil, and the grave was padded with another foot of soil.

“The tree here will not grow without encouragement,” the Keeper said. “The Herald has requested to leave our da’len one final gift. Proceed, lethallan.”

Gaerwyn knelt beside the grave, placing her two hands on the loose soil. When beckoned to, the Fade came alive for her. She felt the spirits of love, hope, purpose, and compassion reach beyond the Veil to aid in her endeavor. As if sensing this, Elgara and Dirthara spoke in soft, agitated whispers.

“I ask for nothing more than you are willing to give,” Gaerwyn murmured to the spirits. “I ask that you remain true to your original purpose.”

The spirits surged forward, lending their magic to the mage. Gaerwyn cleared her mind and allowed herself to be made a conduit to the energy flowing through her. She felt the spirits latch onto her magic, enhancing it with their own.

At first, the seedling was a small, greenish sprout. The mage encouraged it, finding her mind wandered back to those warm evenings with Elliann in the Circle garden, where she taught the child of Creation magic, and how it relied upon the guiding of natural forces to manifest new forms. How only a loving, patient hand could call something into being. Samahl deserved a final place of rest that was beautiful. Gaerwyn intended to remain true to her intentions.

She continued to draw magic into the small sapling. It was well above her height now, sprouting forth creamy white flowers from its elongated branches. She felt the spirits of Purpose direct the magic and encourage the tree to grow. The entities of Love and Compassion were drawn by Gaerwyn’s motivations, lending their strength to the woman. Hope was drawn by the Dalish’s desire to continue their way of life. The hope that their traditions would not be buried in the sands of time.

The Herald placed her hands on the tree’s trunk, feeling the flow of energy running beneath her fingers. She focused more magic into the vein’s coursing within. Petals rained down upon the procession, the sweet scent of spring and apples lingering in the air.

She let the tree mature before ceasing in feeding it more magic. The spirits drew back, satisfied. Wisps of warm magic drifted on a buoyed up breeze like pollen on a Summer’s day.

Elgara came forward, lifting her voice into a song.

_hahren na melana sahlin_  
emma ir abelas  
souver'inan isala hamin  
vhenan him dor'felas  
in uthenera na revas 

_vir sulahn'nehn_  
vir dirthera  
vir samahl la numin  
vir lath sa'vunin 

“Thank you, Herald,” the Keeper said. “Elgara and Renan can move forward. We all can now.”

The Dalish lifted their voices in songs of celebration. Some of which Gaerwyn had come across in old dusty tomes, most completely unknown to her. They sang until heated oranges seared the sky, and the sun was a burning disc of rusty gold.

Elgara approached Gaerwyn. They shared an embrace.

“Thank you,” she whispered to the Herald. “I am gladdened to know that she befriended you. She deserved happiness, and I failed her.”

Gaerwyn hid her thoughts behind a well-placed smile. She could still recall the nights when Samahl would stalk about their shared quarters, throwing a quiet tantrum. How she would curse the names of her parents and Keeper. The Templars were rarely made aware of her evening rages. There were days where she would burrow into a small niche of the library, arms clasped around her legs with unopened books towering at her side. The only indicator that she was upset would be the redness edging her eyes and the slight quivering of her shoulders.

Yet she had also expressed her desire to return to her clan. There were evenings where she would hastily scratch notes into a journal. Information she wanted to share upon meeting her Keeper again. She ardently longed to prove her worth.

The Dalish were brief in their farewells but sincere in their parting affections. When they departed, only one sign of their presence remained. Footprints.

\--

“Commander, would you like to dance?” Gaerwyn inquired, offering him a hand.

“No, thank you. I fear that Templar training didn’t involve dancing.” Cullen ran a hand over the back of his neck and averted his gaze.

“A pity.” Gaerwyn cracked a smile. “I do love to dance.” She wandered off to find a drink.

The evening festivities continued with vigor. Maryden strummed a tune while lilting a song that carried over the dancing masses. Overhead, the sky bore the scar of the Breach. To think that after months of preparation and panic, it was over. An odd thought. The evening almost felt surreal in that respect. For the time being, Cullen didn’t have to worry over directing and training the Inquisition forces. He could rest his mind and permit happier, insignificant thoughts to take the reigns.

He thanked Varric for the spiced cider and took a long swig of the drink. The alcohol laced into the drink stung his tongue with a delightful bite. The heady scents of campfires and roasted boar coalesced together. Alcohol flowed freely and dancing ranged from a sloppy display to a refined elegance. Some of the mage children of the encampment had embarked on a nug-hunting expedition with Sera, Bull, and Blackwall.

Gaerwyn’s laughter lingered in the air, a loud howl of amusement. He couldn’t resist the impulse to smile. She, of all people, deserved to celebrate. He caught sight of her standing on the small overlook of Haven, speaking with Cassandra. The two chatted amiably, hands moving in slow, beckoning gestures. No doubt the Seeker was already informing the Herald of what was to come. The Inquisition’s purpose wasn’t exhausted just yet.

And yet the evening’s festivities were called to a sudden halt. The urging of bells silenced all dancing and laughter. Panicked shouts were heard from beyond Haven’s walls, followed by the pounding of fists and pommels on the gate.

Multiple points of torchlight appeared on the mountainside, like sparks sprayed from an anvil. The sound of armored boots marching over rocky terrain drifted down to Haven. The air was thick with a metallic scent. Not just that though. There was another cloying aroma mingling with the mountain air. It smelled of rotting flesh that laid under a baking sun. Whoever this enemy was, they weren’t of any ilk Cullen had encountered before. Or so he thought.

Upon regaining his voice, Cullen ordered the Inquisition forces to take up arms. He directed the civilians to take shelter in the Chantry and ensured his Lieutenant would carry out his instructions. The masses broke apart in a demonstration of sheer chaos, with individuals running hither and thither in a panic. That panic would only lend to the carnage that a battle was likely to herald. He had others matters to concern himself with. The trebuchets would need to be readied against the approaching enemy and the gates to Haven barricaded.

Maker, why now? Of all times, why did the enemy choose to reveal themselves now?

Haven was under attack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> This chapter was really lore heavy. Like REALLY lore heavy.
> 
> I found the information on Dalish burial/death rites here:  
> http://wiki.chroniclesofthedas.com/index.php?title=Dalish:_Death_Rites
> 
> The portion on the branch was found on the Dragon Age wiki, but I couldn't find it a second time. Basically, Dalish elves are buried with a branch to chase off the two ravens, Fear and Deceit. The two that appear in Dirthamen's story.
> 
> I took some information from the Creation magic codex here:  
> http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Codex_entry:_The_Four_Schools_of_Magic:_Creation
> 
> The song that Elgara sings I found here (Also known as Leliana's song. I didn't realize this until I was writing the chapter. I haven't listened to the song since my last playthrough of Origins):  
> The codex titles the song _In Uthenera_  
>  http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Codex_entry:_In_Uthenera
> 
> Leliana's song:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EAANKFPchtA
> 
> The names I used came from the Elven Language page on the Dragon Age Wiki:
> 
> Dirthara: Learn, seek truth
> 
> Elgara: Sun
> 
> Renan: Voice
> 
> Samahl: Laughter (laugh)


	20. Rising from the Void

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of the Siege on Haven, Gaerwyn fights, injured and fatigued, to make her way through the storm. She remembers discovering Tristan's use of blood magic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your patience!
> 
> ALSO: CHAPTER TWENTY! BRING ME THE PARTY HATS AND STREAMERS OF JOY.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter! Thank you for staying with me!
> 
> **TRIGGER WARNING:** There is some violence and emotional manipulation in the second dream sequence. I don't think it's gratuitous, but I did want to call attention to it. If you do not want to read said scene, message me and I will be happy to summarize what happened.

Gaerwyn was blinded by the snow. With one hand clutching her staff, she pushed on through the knee-high drifts. Her face was numbed to all but the pelting sensation of ice. Like shards of glass biting into her flesh. Her chest ached with each frigid gale she took into her lungs, chilling her from the inside out. Her words were lost to the loud roar of the storm.

The Mark sputtered weakly, intensifying the pain already radiating from her wrist- where Corypheus had grabbed her, effectively fracturing the bone. That was his name. The Elder One. A magister of old. A supposed interloper of the Fade who claimed to have stood before the throne of the Maker to see it lay empty. Barren of a divine ass, Gaerwyn giggled in her delirium.

Gaerwyn’s mind wheeled in dangerous circles over what he said. If he were one of the magisters who had entered the Maker’s city, then he, in turn, would also have corrupted it. Snippets of the Chant were being regurgitated at an alarming rate in the mage’s mind. Verses that described the massive blood sacrifice used to create a tower of blood, bone, and metal to reach the heavens. The origins of the Blight, if the Chantry was to be believed.

The Canticle of Silence was prone to inducing nightmares in Gaerwyn as a child. Now those nightmares seemed to have come alive.

The mage lost her footing. She toppled over into the snow and cried out in anguish. Broken ribs, severed ligaments, and an impressive chunk up debris lodged into her side currently plagued her hike through the snow. She didn’t know what was worse: laying there, immobile, whilst being gradually buried by the compacting down of snow, or walking and exercising the wounds.

_Honeybee…_

_Lethallan…_

_Herald…_

She released a soft groan and forced herself to rise. Even bending to retrieve her staff was a task that required an inordinate amount of strength and willpower she feared she did not possess. She managed, all the same.

“Keep walking,” she hissed between gritted teeth. Her words were lost to the winds, but the cadence resonated in her chest.

_“Everyone! Make for the Chantry!”_

_Gaerwyn managed to save Seggrit and Lynette. Varric pulled Flyssa from the burning debris of the tavern while the others fought to stem the flow of the enemy's onslaught. All the same, the inhabitants of Haven were being felled by Templar sword at a rapid rate. The Inquisition forces had forsaken the trebuchets and were pulling back to defend the Chantry. This town wasn’t built to survive a siege, nor house an army._

_The Herald ascended the stairs leading to the alchemist's workshop to find that Minaeve and Adan were bound to a stockpile of alchemist fire. A tiny, licking flame crept along a path of oil trailing towards the two. Even during a siege, the Templars managed to stop and terrorize two inhabitants? That didn’t seem likely. Gaerwyn made to loosen the binds holding Adan to an unseemly death, only to have him wildly gesticulate towards the small elf mage._

_“No! Save Minaeve,” Adan shouted over the panic. “Now!”_

_Gaerwyn abandoned the alchemist’s ties and set to work on freeing Minaeve. She shook like a leaf, her words coming out in a jumble. When her binds slackened, the young elf took off towards the Chantry._

_She then made for Adan. She wouldn't leave him. Not like this._

_“Herald!” Cassandra wrapped an arm around Gaerwyn’s center and dragged her away from the stockpile. The small yard came alight with a powerful explosion, bathing everything under a blanket of flame. She was robbed of breath. She couldn’t save him; the crotchety old alchemist who claimed to see something of a daughter in the mage._

_The archdemon roared overhead, its leathery wings cutting through the air._

_There wasn’t time to mourn their losses, she knew that. The small company made for the Chantry, managing to pull the quartermaster to safety prior to a Templar blade beheading her._

_The Chantry couldn’t offer protection. Not for long anyways._

_Roderick offered a chance for the survivors to flee. The Chancellor who, in his dying delirium, finally accepted his defeat. Having been extremely vocal in his opposition of the Inquisition up until that point, his aid was unexpected and almost unwanted._

_Allowing the Red Templars to run amuck would only encourage a speedier demise. All the same, those who could fight were already locked in battle or preparing the civilians for a speedy flight from the encampment. Yet, a diversion would still be necessary. There was little question as to who would take on that burden._

_Cullen was needed to guide the armies. Remove the Commander, and the Inquisition forces would be dismantled in one fell motion. He directed the players, and without him, this grand performance would die. Whereas Leliana was the Spymaster- the Inquisition’s puppeteer. The sort of individual who functioned best in obscurity. Pull the curtain away, and all is revealed. Lady Montilyet was perhaps the only individual who could compose such elegant alliances with the aristocracy. She was a conductor. The only one who could be entrusted in guiding the nobility like one would guide a grand orchestra, creating a harmony that would buoy up the decisions of her cohorts._

_Gaerwyn on the other hand… Gaerwyn was a figurehead. She was the Herald. She was a former Tranquil with an odd magical gash on her hand. With the Breach sealed, her purpose was diminished to nothing. If she were to die, that death could at least be viewed as a martyrdom. Her perishing would encourage the Inquisition and prospective allies to fight on._

_Anyone could save an Empress. Any army could go up against a hoard of demons -when guided by the right hand._

_When Cullen and she finally managed to meet the other’s gaze, the wrenching pain suddenly settled. In the face of the enemy, they couldn’t afford to display any weakness. Nor could they afford to weigh the worth of one life with more consideration than that of a collective. No. It had to be Gaerwyn._

_“Varric. Dorian. Bull,” she said each name with hesitation. “Will you accompany me?”_

_The three objected, yet only in jest. Ribbing one another as they stood upon a precipice seemed to mock the impending threat, after all._

_“Herald,” Cullen said, stretching one hand out to her retreating figure. She turned._

_The smile Gaerwyn forced to her lips wavered uncertainly. Whatever platitudes she may have wanted to spend on the moment would have acted only as an injustice._

_“We’ll signal you when we reach the tree line,” he said. She nodded her head in understanding._

_Words that should have been given remained stilled in their mouths, gathering on their tongues. What could be said?_

_“Take care,” she told him._

_With that, the door slammed shut behind her. Odd, how it sounded like a coffin lid being nailed down._

Gaerwyn forced herself to stand for what felt like the umpteenth time. She needed to focus. Needed to get out of this storm.

She spoke an incantation, the words barely rising above a hoarse whisper. Her hands warmed with a fire spell, but she did not permit the heat to manifest into flames. This was a small indulgence. Gaerwyn needed to salvage what energy she could. Wasting it was not an option. That thought having manifested, Gaerwyn allowed for the magic to die.

She forced one stiff leg to move through the snow. What originally had only reached her knees now clawed at her mid-thigh. She needed to hurry.

For who though?

She couldn’t remember what –or who- she was supposed to be searching for. She was tired and in pain. Her side injury radiated with white-hot anguish. Whenever she moved her left arm, a lancing agony would overtake her. Like that, what vestiges of motivation she clung to suddenly fled her.

Gaerwyn toppled over into the snow. She did not rise.

_She watched in horror as Tristan used a mixture of his blood and the bandits to torture the latter. Their bodies had twisted into impossible forms, all the while with Tristan forcing them to remain alive. So that they may feel every bone snap, every muscle strain and tear, and finally, watch as he drew blood from one to empower the torturing of their kin. Not even a bandit deserved the death that he granted them._

_It was enough to make Gaerwyn vomit. Which she did. All the while with Samahl standing over her, speaking in panicked elvhen. If not in horror over the usage of taboo magic, then over the inhumanity Tristan employed to effectively conduct the torture of his captors._

_They watched, rooted in place, as Tristan snapped the spine of a bandit. That one fell to the ground in a boneless heap. The second victim wheezed as the air was slowly dragged from his chest and his lungs were collapsed. Rich red blood dribbled from his mouth and his eyes rolled into his head as his life was extinguished. The last three of the fifteen original bandits received the cruelest of deaths. Deaths that would haunt Gaerwyn for the remainder of her days._

_The last bandit suspended in the air by Tristan's spell was released, landing among corpses that received a similar treatment._

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_It took Gaerwyn a moment to regain her bearings. Upon doing so, she promptly approached Tristan and struck him. He toppled into a nearby pool of foul, greenish water._

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_“You hit me!” Tristan exclaimed in shock. He cradled his bruised jaw, all the while staring at the woman incredulously._

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_“You… blood mage.” The words were spoken as if they were the ultimate blasphemy._

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_“You don’t understand,” Tristan said. He reached for her, only to balk when she slapped his hand back. “I did it to save you!”_

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_Gaerwyn pulled herself out of the mire. The swamp smelled of magic, wildlife, and dung. No doubt it would take a few days before the scent was completely expelled from her clothing- and that was being hopeful._

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_“You’re a blood mage!” she snarled. “You realize that you’ve given the Templars every reason to kill you, yes?”_

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_“Gaerwyn.” He limped out of the pond she had shoved him into. “I did it for you.”_

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_“Me? Don’t you dare make this my fault!”_

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_“I couldn’t bear to see you as a Tranquil,” he continued. “I thought that if I could harness the power of blood, I could save you.”_

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_“Tristan,” Samahl said, her voice firm. “In the end, blood magic only serves to hurt those you want to help. While your intentions may have been noble… if you had followed through with your plan, you wouldn’t have saved Gaerwyn. You would have—“_

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_“No! It wouldn’t have happened. I spent years perfecting the technique. I experimented on the other Tranquil and—“ Another fist connected with his nose._

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_“You’re trying to tell me that you wouldn’t have hurt those you wanted to help,” Gaerwyn seethed, “And in the same breath you go on to say you were experimenting on living beings?!”_

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_“I love you!” he wailed, blood pouring down his face._

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_“You came to the Circle after I was made Tranquil. You didn’t know who you were in love with. I wasn't me! How would you manage to reshape my mind if you didn’t even know how those pieces went together?” Gaerwyn asked._

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_“I would do anything.” He grasped onto the front of her trousers and buried his face into her leg. “Please.”_

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_Gaerwyn couldn’t deny the pity constricting about her lungs._

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_“You aren’t the woman I thought I was saving,” he said, his voice darkening. “The woman who would have been compassionate and loving and doting. You aren’t her. You’ve proven that much. If you were her, then you would have forgiven me. Understood my reasoning. If I had succeeded saved you, then you would have loved me. Whoever the fool was at the Spire, they didn’t fix you. They did it wrong.”_

__

_He was slowly unhinging before their eyes. Gaerwyn looked to Samahl, and she knew they shared the same thoughts. Could they, in good conscience, take him to the Conclave? They risked unleashing a blood mage onto worshipers, pilgrims, Templars, mages, and the Divine herself._

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_“You’re broken!” Tristan yelled at her. He rose to his feet and drew a swirling blackish pool of blood into his hand from the open gash on his wrist. “I’ll fix you. We’ll be happy together, you and I. We’ll have children. Beautiful mage children who will learn to love their gift and fear no Templar. They will be gods among men!”_

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_“No.”_

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_The one word seemed to shatter Tristan. He looked to Gaerwyn and then to Samahl._

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_“Tell her I can fix her!” he pled with the elf. She shook her head._

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_“She isn’t broken,” Samahl said firmly, her features brooking no sympathy for the maleficar_

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_“She is! She is! You don’t know! You’re wrong!” The blood churned in his hands, boiling and scenting the air with copper._

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_“Tristan. Stop,” Gaerwyn ordered._

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_“I can make you better!” he insisted._

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_“No.” She met his gaze, and she held it._

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_His hands fell to his sides, the blood running through his fingers like wine. The mania in his stare faded to a distant remnant._

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_“I just wanted to make you happy,” he said quietly._

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_“I know,” she responded, features impassive and betraying little. “Let’s get your leg splinted. We have a while to travel yet.”_

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_Gaerwyn stepped out of the bandit’s camp to search for driftwood. When completely out of sight, the mage bent over and vomited for a second time. Her breathing turned erratic, threatening to knock her senseless._

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_“Lethallan!” Samahl was at her side. She pulled Gaerwyn close, rocking the mage gently. “It’s alright.”_

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_“I feel sick.” She choked out the words. “He… he didn’t know what he was doing. Do you know about the Tranquil incidents?”_

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_Samahl was silent. She gave no indication of knowing one way or another._

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_“It started… Maker, three months after Tristan arrived in the Circle. Occasionally, a Tranquil would suddenly break down. Screaming, raging, or weeping. Just one violent show of emotion. And then, almost as soon as it began, the Tranquil’s mind would shatter. Either they would sit in an unresponsive state or rampage, only to fall catatonic shortly after. There were whispers of blood magic being the cause, but no real follow up investigation.” Gaerwyn pressed her head to her knees. “I fear he began to addle the minds of the Templars who would have conducted that search. Just enough so that they would pay him a blind eye. We were escorted to our quarters every night for two years. Not that it helped all that much…”_

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_“Lethallan, what should we do with him?” Samahl asked. She patted the plain iron dagger on her belt. “You, or I could—“_

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_“I don’t think he’ll try anything,” Gaerwyn replied._

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_“Do you honestly want to risk that? I don’t think that’s wise.”_

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_“It’s not,” she said softly. “He isn’t allowed to keep watch anymore. Either you or I must remain awake at all times. I’ll bind him each night, and set wards in place. If, at any point, we think he is trying to escape, we’ll… take more drastic measures.”_

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_Samahl sighed. “I don’t agree with this, but, for the time being, I will do as you say.”_

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_“Thank you.” Gaerwyn embraced the elf. “Let’s head back.”_

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_Upon returning to the bandit’s camp, they found Tristan sitting by the campfire. He welcomed the two with a chilly salutation, not even deigning to look upon them. All the same, he was compliant when they set his leg and bound his arms with black cord._

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_“I could have made you happy,” he hissed at Gaerwyn. “You ungrateful—“_

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_Her gaze was enough to silence him. What was that pooling in his stare? Fear? He feared her? He, a blood mage with an impressive streak of arrogance would balk under the glare of another? The man didn't even blink when lectured by a senior enchanter who did good on any threat made. What was there to fear with Gaerwyn? Granted, she was adept with ice magic, she wasn't an expert -yet. For all his blustering, Tristan probably took solace in using the forbidden school of magic. When all else failed, when the time for vengeance was available, he would strike. He would manipulate the blood of enchanters, templars, and whoever else may oppose him, to reach his goals. She could only wonder when he intended to seek out revenge on her._

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_She didn’t bother to dwell on the thought._

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The snow was beginning to pile over Gaerwyn’s shape. She forced herself to kneel, finding that the snow was deepening.

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_Am I broken?_

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The question seemed so poignant all of a sudden. When, after three long, nightmarish years, she felt certain that she wasn't a fractured individual, those three words started to needle at the back of her mind. After having those doubts allayed for so long, they suddenly came back at full strength. It took everything in her not to slump back into the snow. What if Tristan was right? What then?

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Her breath spread out in a plume of white, creating a vague contrast of pale against pale in the blizzard. Maker's breath, the man barely knew her. In the span of time they were acquainted, he was constantly trying to impose his ideal image of her onto the reality of who she was. She wasn't about to let him have the satisfaction of breaking her- not here or beyond the mortal coil.

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_Reach deep down into your heart and you will find many reasons to fight. Survival. Honor. Glory. But what about those who feel instead duty to protect the innocent? There you will find a warrior savage enough to match any dragon. And in the end they will retain what the others won't... their humanity._

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_You aren't broken._

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“Keep moving,” she ordered herself. She found her staff by sheer luck.

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As before, Gaerwyn lost all track of time in the snow. Her only indication of what direction to trudge in was what she thought was the faint outline of a mountain. She urged her legs towards that goal, hoping to at least seek out shelter.

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Wolves howled in the distance. She whipped her head towards the sound, only to find that the creature’s voices were echoed by the mountains. With a heavy sigh, Gaerwyn pushed on.

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To remain conscious, she spoke snippets of poetry. What she could remember, she spoke aloud whilst turning her mind for the rest of a verse or stanza. At certain points the poem would become so irritatingly complex that it left Gaerwyn’s mind in a muddle. She found tavern songs mingling with the words of nursery rhymes, or with pithy little couplets she had constructed to help her remember alchemical recipes.

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“Sera was never an agreeable goose, her tongue told tales of three cups elfroot steeped in hot water lest it become fodder…”

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Gaerwyn reached an incline, one which promised to lead her above the frothing blizzard. Every step was agony as the chill that numbed her injuries drained away. The same intense pain was enough to slow any further progression to a limp. And then… she found a sign of life. A small fire pit abandoned on the obscured trail just ahead of her. She released a sigh of joy upon seeing that the embers still pulsed with warmth, albeit that warmth fading.

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The storm laid like a cloak on the valley floor below. Shard-like flecks of snow still assailed her face, but not with the same zealotry. The path before her was marked with fading footsteps. From the look of it, there were well over fifty travelers in this party. The Inquisition? She didn’t know. At this point, following the trail was the only way to receive an answer.

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The mountain pass was constricting to the point where only two people could walk abreast simultaneously. Winter winds howled like enraged ghouls. She didn’t know if the shudder was from the chill or the thought planted in her head.

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“The stars look very cold about the sky, and I have many miles on foot to fare,” she said, the lines of the poem coupled with the quivering of her mouth. She continued forward, muddling through another rhyme.

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_She rapped three times on Cullen’s door, a short rhythm sounding under her curled fingers. She heard a chair scraping over a stone floor and boots approaching._

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_The Commander had discarded his armor and surcoat, leaving him in a sweat-stained tunic and worn pair of trousers. After the march on the Breach, he had informed the Inquisition forces that the remainder of the day would be spent resting and reveling. Evidently, the same courtesy was not extended to himself. In one hand he held a small pile of reports and in the other, he clutched a candle._

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_“May I come in?” Gaerwyn inquired._

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_“Of course. Did you need something?” he asked, pulling back from the threshold to allow her entry._

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_“I wanted to take a look at your wound. Check to make sure it healed correctly,” she replied._

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_“That’s not necessary—“_

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_“Oh? You went and had it looked at?” She gave the torn and bloodied shoulder of his tunic a pointed look._

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_“Well, no, I didn’t think it was needed.” Cullen closed the chamber door with his forearm, the candle sputtering with the sudden movement._

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_Gaerwyn smirked. “May I have a look?”_

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_“You won’t stop worrying until I acquiesce, will you?” Cullen laughed._

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_“And yet here we are. Me, willing to strip myself bare, both figuratively and literally, if it means I can take care of your injury.” The poorly-wrought innuendo was enough to force a sweltering blush to his cheeks. Gaerwyn concealed her smile with a well-placed sigh._

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_“I- How can I say no to that?” He slipped the tunic over his head, tossing it over his desk. His toned torso rippled with muscle and scars. It took all of Gaerwyn’s willpower not to run her hands over his front, memorizing the distinct contouring. The way his chest would rise and fall with each intake and release of breath. She wondered how her bare chest would feel against his. How it would feel to have him lift her legs onto his shoulders whilst being with her in the most intimate way possible. How it may feel to have her wrapped about his center while he—_

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_She cleared her throat, perhaps a bit too loudly. She tried to ignore the feverish sensation that overwhelmed her as she proceeded to run a hand over Cullen’s shoulder. The healing potions that she stowed into his traveling pack had served their purpose. His flesh was cleanly knit together, leaving little visible evidence of a former wound._

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_“Lift your arm over your head,” she instructed. Cullen obeyed. He flexed some, encouraging his muscles to bulge. The mage released an audible squeak of surprise, her cheeks flaring with color. Her Commander laughed._

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_“You… bad man!” She managed to gasp. “Did you experience any pain while vulgarly displaying your body?”_

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_“None,” he said, a mischievous grin overtaking his features. “Like what you see, my lady?”_

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_“As if I need to answer that! Hold your arms out in front of you.”_

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_Once more, Cullen complied, adding another sensuous stretch to the exercise. “I fear you may need to, my dear Herald. I believe you may see something that I may not.”_

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_She averted her gaze and exhaled loudly through her nose. “You… have a very striking figure. It’s very appealing. Rotate your arm. I want to make sure you have full mobility.”_

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_“Of course. But you must tell me what you mean with my having a very_ striking figure.”

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_“Maker’s breath!” She was certain that the consistent rush of blood to her head was going to make her keel over._

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_Cullen continued to add little flares to each movement, obviously enjoying Gaerwyn’s reactions. When she completed her inspection of the Commander’s shoulder, she sat down heavily at his desk, releasing a groan of frustration into her hands._

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_“So, my striking figure?” Cullen inquired._

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_“Oh, void take you!” The Commander responded with another loud round of laughter. Gaerwyn looked up, only to promptly fold her hands over her face once more. “Maker’s breath, man! Put your shirt back on!”_

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_She heard the gentle whisper of his bare feet over the stone floor. When she looked up again, she found the Commander kneeling before her._

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_“To think I could leave you a blushing mess!” Cullen’s tone was rife with pleasure. He pulled her from his desk chair, enveloping her in his embrace. “You become oddly technical when you’re flustered, you know that?”_

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_“I was not flustered,” she said irritably. “You’re fine. I don’t see any residual damage. If there’s any discomfort, let me or Adan know.”_

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_“What sort of examinations will occur if I do?”_

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_Gaerwyn leaned forward, allowing her loose tunic to slip over one shoulder. If Cullen let his eyes meander even slightly, he would take in the gentle slopes of her breasts. She had declined to wear a breast band, seeing as there was no need to dress formally until her presence was needed for a war council –which at least gave her two hours more._

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_“Well, I would have to be very thorough,” she informed her Commander, her voice dropping into a sultry husk. In the heat of the moment, she leaned into Cullen and brushed her lips over his shoulder. “I’m glad you’re alright,” she said softly, dropping all flirtatious pretense._

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_“As am I- that is, I’m glad you made it out alive- I mean—” She nuzzled his neck, pressing a kiss against his jaw. He brought his lips to hers, spurred on by her soft moan of pleasure. Cushioning her jaw with his hand, Cullen deepened the kiss._

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_He pulled back only briefly. His eyes drifted down the generous neckline of Gaerwyn’s shirt where he came to rest upon the obvious swell of her… His gaze snapped back up to hers._

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_“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to- that is, Maker… I…”_

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_Gaerwyn laughed, readjusting her clothing. She pressed her lips to his, losing herself in the shared affection, and only pulling back to whisper softly, “I like it when you look at me.”_

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_“This is revenge, isn’t it?”_

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_“More so me expressing my affection,” she said with a guiltless shrug. “If my flirting makes you uncomfortable, I will stop. The last thing I want is to make you feel uneasy around me. I care about you. I want you to know that.” Her humorous tone was replaced with firm sincerity._

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_Cullen nodded. “The flirting isn’t a problem, so much as it is unexpected. I do like it…” he said slowly, running a hand over the back of his neck. “Maker only knows how much.”_

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_“Tell me if that ever changes,” she said. She kissed his neck, squealing when he returned the gesture._

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_“Well, now that I have seen to your injury,” Gaerwyn began as she rose to her feet, “I shall take my leave.”_

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_Her Commander was prompt to stand and encircle his arms around her. With his chest pressed to her back, Cullen brought a tender kiss to her temple. “Take care, my dear Herald.”_

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\--

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Cullen procured a horse from Dennet. He had already buckled the saddle into place and affixed the reins about the creature’s muzzle. He checked to make sure that neither would offer any form of discomfort to the horse.

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“Where are you going?” Cassandra inquired, her voice taking on a hardened tone.

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The Commander paused. He turned to the Seeker, realizing she had gleaned all the information she may need from his features alone. Her initial sharpness lessened, and her lips fell into a soft frown.

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“Commander, we can’t risk losing you to the storm as well,” she said gently. “I realize she was- is important to you, but you are just as valuable to the Inquisition.”

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The horse shied away suddenly, galloping off towards the stables. Evidently, it was spooked into rushing for safety. In the mount’s wake stood Cole. At least, that’s what he called himself. The boy’s true purpose had yet to be disclosed. He insisted that he approached the Inquisition to help; in what way he meant to offer his assistance still remained an elusive detail. He seemed earnest in his intentions, but there was something unsettling about him, all the same.

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“She’s hurt,” he said.

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Cullen’s hand went to the scarf encircling his neck. In the rush to flee Haven, it freed itself from beneath his armor- not that anyone possessed the time to waste in paying heed to small trifles.

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“She?” Cassandra asked, confusion knitting her brow together.

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“Lethallan, Honeybee, my dear, Tranquil, Herald. She has so many names, but only one.” Cole stared at Cullen from under the brim of his hat. “Her name like honey on my lips. Her laugh makes the hurt go away. A red slash of cloth. Around her neck, her waist, around me, binding two together while only touching one.”

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“Cullen.” Cassandra looked to the Commander, seeing a forced indifference reeling over his face.

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“A promise,” Cole continued. “No matter what tomorrow holds, I want the surest thing to be your survival.” Maker, he was even imitating the inflections of her voice. It was maddening! “The storm is blinding. Thoughts muddled. Everything hurts. The poem… I can’t finish the poem.”

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“Is she still alive?” Cullen placed his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “Can you tell me?”

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“Flickering, like candlelight caught in the wind. She wavers, but continues on. Breathing hurts, but she still draws in air,” Cole says. He glances towards the mouth of the mountain pass. “Light in the distance. Warm, golden, like the Chantry at night.”

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The boy pointed towards the pass. Not but moments later, a hunched over figure emerged from the shadows.

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“There! It’s her!” Cullen shouted. Every head in the camp turned.

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“Thank the Maker!” Cassandra followed after the Commander as he climbed the incline to her. She was alive. The Herald, no, Gaerwyn, was alive.

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\--

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She heard his voice before she saw him. A surge of relief brought her to her knees.

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“Gaerwyn.” At the beckoning of her name, the mage looked up to see her Commander, breathless and disheveled. Using her staff as leverage, she pulled herself to her feet, wobbling violently upon regaining her footing.

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“Maker,” she whispered, taking a few steps forward. Cullen closed the space between the two. He placed an arm against the undersides of her knees, and the other around her shoulders. Lifting her into his arms, he released a long sigh of relief.

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“You’re alive,” she said, pressing a hand against his cheek. “I’m glad.”

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“I should say the same!” her Commander manages. He performed a brief inspection of her wounds, grimacing when recognizing the severity. The massive piece of debris stabbed into her side was beyond worrisome. “I thought I’d lost you.”

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He placed his forehead against hers, their noses brushing gently together. In stark contrast to Cullen, Gaerwyn was half-frozen and clinging to him for warmth. He pressed his lips to hers, finding that the affection was more than welcomed. Gaerwyn reciprocated his gesture, wrapping her arms loosely over his shoulders. She tightened her legs around his center, the warmth his body emitted was utterly intoxicating. If not for the sudden, unwelcome clearing of Cassandra’s throat, chances were that the two would have remained rooted in place for an unmarked stint of time.

__

“As… pleasing as your survival is, Herald, I believe you should have your wounds seen to as soon as possible,” Cassandra stated.

__

“She’s right,” Cullen agreed. “I’ll carry you back—“

__

“I can walk,” Gaerwyn insisted.

__

“It isn’t a matter of if you can walk or not,” Cullen argued. “Have you looked at yourself lately?”

__

“Mmm, yes. I’m quite pleasing to the eyes, if I do say so myself.”

__

“That’s not what I—“

__

“Herald, let the Commander carry you back.” Cassandra said, her voice void of emotion with features trapped in a deadpan stare that would brook no argument.

__

“Cassandra! Traitor!” Gaerwyn gasped in mock horror.

__

“Here.” Cullen set the Herald down and secured an arm around her waist. “Does that work?”

__

“Oh, I suppose,” she said with a sigh. She leaned into the Commander’s side.

__

“Let me carry your staff. Your wrist is broken, yes?”

__

“It’s most certainly not in prime condition.” Gaerwyn handed her staff off to Cullen, using her freed hand to hold onto his supporting arm. Together, they made the descent from the crest of the hill. Cries of astonishment rose up from the camp, survivors raising their heads to look towards the snowy turf. The Herald was alive. Perhaps she truly was ordained by Andraste herself. Gaerwyn grimaced at the thought.

__

\--

__

There was no denying that the Seeker was more than pleased to see the Herald reappear. She had not expected Cullen to abandon his duties, but after the shared display of affection Gaerwyn and he shared upon reuniting, Cassandra wasn’t quite so certain he would have remained if the Herald was at risk. What were the chances that he would mount a one-man attack on any that dared threaten this woman? Whatever the case may be, the Herald returned to the Inquisition. Alive. No doubt her emerging from the siege on Haven would be trussed up in ludicrous exaggerations to further fan the Inquisition’s reach, something which Leliana would take prompt advantage of.

__

The Seeker followed the Herald and Commander at a distance, watching as he supported her weight and guided her towards the healer’s tent. Pilgrims, refugees, and soldiers alike crowded the entrance to catch a glimpse of the mage, whispering words of awe and doubt. Those rumors would have to be quelled before getting too out of hand, Cassandra noted. She caught the telltale glimpse of a scout’s uniform from the shadows cast out by the firelight. The Spymaster was informed of the Herald's arrival.

__

With a sharp word to the stragglers, Cassandra dispersed the cluster of people standing attentive. No healer should feel any more pressure than what their occupation already demanded. All the same… she permitted herself a swift glance inside the tent.

__

Gaerwyn was laying on a makeshift bed, the fatigue of her ordeals finally settling into her limbs and joints. She spoke with the Commander, who listened with rapt attention. He clasped one of her hands in his two large ones, running circles over her palm with his thumb.

__

It was oddly picturesque, Cassandra found herself musing. There was little use in denying she was pleased for this couple –and had predicted their relationship months before either possessed an inkling of their mutual affections. To find happiness in such a bleak time may be argued shameless. All the same, love often was. The Herald and Commander; no- Gaerwyn and Cullen deserved whatever happiness they could find. In each other and in their peers. She withdrew from her watch, allowing the two a rare moment of privacy.

__

\--

__

“His name is Corypheus then?” Cullen said softly.

__

The mage nodded. She closed her eyes, her features screwing together as the Healer began the gradual, painstaking process of removing the debris lodged in her side. It was not going to be a pleasant night.

__

“He wasn’t the most polite of fellows, I won’t lie,” Gaerwyn remarked through clenched teeth.

__

“Continue speaking with her, Commander,” the Healer said, eyes never wavering from her patient’s wound. “It’ll take her mind off the worst of the pain.”

__

“Oh, you’ll find that’s not a comfort,” the Herald returned. “How is everyone?”

__

“We saved those we could,” Cullen said. “The Inner Circle made it out of Haven unscathed. They had a surfeit of time, seeing as you managed to distract the archdemon and this Magister. It actually took a handful of soldiers to prevent them from returning to Haven after the avalanche.”

__

A howl of pain was ripped from Gaerwyn’s lips as the Healer removed the massive chunk of wood. The medic then ordered the Commander to place a hand over the wound to staunch any further blood flow, lest the Herald bleed out before her mage assistant administered aid.

__

He nodded, withdrawing his hand when ordered to do so. He took the dampened towel offered to him afterwards, cleaning his hands of the Herald's blood. “Would you like me to stay?” he asked her.

__

“Please. I... I have never felt so alone in my life than when I was trying to navigate through that storm. I didn’t think I would make it back. I'm just relieved I didn't completely turn myself around and march back to Haven in that bluster.” Gaerwyn shut her eyes. The color was returning to her features, a slight flush of pink painting her lips, no longer a pallid white. Her hands was warming in his, a blessing he silently thanked the Maker for.

__

“Here.” Cullen unfurled the scarf from his neck and secured it about Gaerwyn’s throat, letting his hand linger over the flesh for a fleeting moment. A stray thread snagged under the nail of his little finger, as if in an attempt to stay him from shifting away.

__

“Ah, it appears rather attached to you,” Gaerwyn mused sleepily.

__

“That it does,” he agreed. With a gentle hand, Cullen pushed the thick red hair out of the mage’s eyes. The scarred flesh of the sunburst brand was a dark contrast against her paled complexion, even by the firelight. A twinge of anger awoke in his stomach, roaring in quiet fury upon seeing the evidence of past abuses. There had been few occasions in the past where he recalled experiencing such a smoldering rage. To think someone he held so dearly had endured such a cruel punishment was enough to make his stomach churn.

__

He pressed a soft kiss to her knuckles, allowing himself to be lost in the feel of her hand against his lips. The Healer and her assistant worked diligently but otherwise did not disturb their patient and her visitor. When Cullen gave them a questioning look, a dash of abashment coloring his cheeks, he was awarded with a wave of a hand. The two promised that the Herald and Commander’s private affairs would remain exactly that.

__

Gaerwyn’s breath went shallow as she drifted off into sleep. Only when certain that she wouldn’t wake in the event of his departure did Cullen finally slip his hand from hers. Looking down on her, he realized just how small she was in contrast to him, her being all the more slight after surviving the ordeals that plagued the night. He did notice that she was shorter during past encounters, but for some reason, the difference seemed exaggerated now. As tenderly as possible, Cullen drew the bed covers onto her sleeping form, permitting himself to pause in his ministrations. He planted a ginger kiss over her eyebrow before withdrawing from the tent.

__

“Warm and safe. She doesn’t feel ashamed around you. Her brand is inconsequential in your eyes. She is Gaerwyn. Not Tranquil,” Cole said, his pale body seeming to glow in the firelight. “Yet she fears what would change if you knew…”

__

“Knew what?” Cullen felt a lump form in his throat.

__

“Scars mark her. Grisly, ugly, she thinks. A story painted in blood and tears. Throat raw from screaming. Broken and bound. A person held dear. But not the person she knew… a wolf in sheep’s clothes,” the boy continued, unperturbed by Cullen’s widening stare. Cole looked up, eyes a translucent blue. “She called her Honeybee.”

__

“Stop, please,” Cullen managed. “We all have secrets, Cole. Things better left unsaid.”

__

“I want to stop the hurt,” Cole insisted, his voice melancholic.

__

“I believe you, but… it isn’t my place to know what she doesn’t wish to disclose.” Cullen finished his thought rather weakly. While the Commander may wish to learn more of his dear Herald, it should be her, and her alone, who willingly informed him; and certainly not by means of coercing the woman either. No, Cullen wouldn’t ask unless she desired to speak of it. 

__

All the same… how could this boy know such things? Perhaps he was a hedge mage with a gift for reading people? Or the sort of conjurer who carried a particular proclivity for spirits. When pressed, Cole simply responded with: “I’m me.”

__

Cullen turned his attentions to seeking out the Spymaster, Ambassador, and Seeker. It was time to discuss where the Inquisition would continue from this point. What with Haven destroyed and their base of operations with it, their forces were displaced and without purpose. That had to be remedied as soon as possible.

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The verses Gaerwyn began to recite were from John Keat's sonnet: _O Solitude! if I must with thee dwell"_
> 
> I've been looking forward to introducing Cole for so long now! I was hoping to finally explain the meaning of the title, and I think I accomplished that... at least I hope so. 
> 
> The second dream sequence takes place shortly before the Conclave. After the transition in chapter 1, I mentioned how Tristan had been caught by bandits while falling asleep on watch.
> 
> The third sequence takes place shortly after Gaerwyn returns from the closing the Breach, and a few hours prior to meeting with Tristan's siblings.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	21. The Mage, The Tranquil, The Herald, The Inquisitor, The Lover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Gaerwyn's near death experience, she and Cullen grow to be somewhat more liberal in their affections.
> 
> Cullen expresses his guilt over what occurred at Haven and suffers from a withdrawal. Gaerwyn becomes the Inquisitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **NSFW** : some suggestive content... a bit more than suggestive maybe.
> 
> Thank you so much for staying with me. It means more than I can ever put into words. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!

The Herald’s evenings were spent under the unwavering watchfulness of healers and companions alike. While individuals such as Varric, Solas, and Cullen were capable of understanding, and exceedingly respectful of her wish for solitude on occasion, other varying members of the encampment struggled with fully comprehending her discomfort. She had to go to such lengths as speaking firmly with both Cassandra and Cole about what a commodity privacy was for mages. How uncommon it was for a mage to be away from the watchful eyes of the Templars, and how coveted those moments were.

The travelling was exhausting, and being able to lie down in her tent, away from prying eyes, was a glorious feeling. At the same time though, it was all the more apparent if she wished to visit Cullen’s quarters in the evening –his quarters being a shoddily constructed tent with a massive cluster of tents set by soldiers surrounding him- that their shared desire for secrecy would have to be forsaken as payment. Thus far, whenever the Inquisition set camp for the evening, the recruits were quick to swarm around their Commander. It wouldn't be an exaggeration to claim that these soldiers preferred to cleave to the man, listening to his every word with bated breath.

“If I were a lesser woman,” Gaerwyn mused on one occasion, “I would be seething.”

Cullen cracked a smile. “Yet you don’t deny being jealous.”

“Jealous of the time they have with you, yes,” she said with a shrug. Cullen responded by tugging her into a supply tent with him and kissing her hungrily. Evidently he was also struggling with the current state of affairs. His hands were rather exploratory, now that their moments of intimacy had been cut into a fraction of what they once were. What was previously an hour was now whittled down to five minutes. Or what had been five minutes was truncated into half of one. Gaerwyn loved how his large hands would cup her breasts, with him slipping his fingers under her breast band to feel the warmth of her skin against his calloused palms. Or how he would growl lowly in his throat or gasp with want when she rolled her hips against him.

“Commander! Are you in here?” One of his officers was doing a sweep of the area, still perplexed by why the head of Inquisition forces would take such an interest in the miscellaneous supplies stored in the area.

Cullen exhaled softly. He planted a kiss on Gaerwyn’s lips, attempting to draw out their first romantic encounter in days. As he tugged on her lower lip with his teeth, the officer’s voice sounded once more, closer this time.

“He’s looking for you,” Gaerwyn whispered. Cullen shushed her with another insistent kiss, while circling one thumb around her nipple. The mage laughed slightly, memories of trysts in the Circle library resurfacing in her mind. Only briefly. Her Commander had a tendency to take up her thoughts rather inconveniently, but, of course, never unwantedly. Her giggles melted into a stifled moan. She hooked her fingers in his belt and began a languid search for the buckle, while permitting her fingers to drift lower to the notable bulge of his erection. She slowly massaged his cock through his trousers, encouraged to continue by his choked breathing and twitching girth. Cullen palmed her breasts, tweaking her nipples in a way that made her whimper with need. Gaerwyn moved to ease one hand into his trousers, her fingers sliding beneath his waistband--

“Commander!” Directly outside the tent. The two froze, the only sound being the slight rustle of fabric. They waited until the officer’s crunching boot steps retreated before continuing. Gaerwyn tossed the belt aside and took to loosening the cinches of Cullen’s trousers. She could see the vague V of his hips, and her mouth went dry at the sight. She looked up at him, searching for any sign to halt, and seeing none. He encouraged her to proceed by pushing her trousers to well below her hips, his fingers wandering over the gentle curvature of her stomach. He eased her trousers to her knees and made a small flourish of discarding her underwear in a similar fashion, all the while with Gaerwyn watching her Commander, finding immense excitement in how his eyes darkened with his desire. With his hand on her bare thigh, he let his fingers dip between her legs and—

“Commander! Are you in here?” The officer was promptly shoved out of the tent, just before he could get an eyeful of the Herald’s backside.

“I’m not feeling well, officer,” Cullen said, his voice strained and, perhaps from outside, sounding rather ill. “I was checking the meat rations for an infestation.”

“Lady Cassandra wishes to speak with you,” the officer persisted, voice entrenched in uncertainty.

“I will… be there shortly,” he said finally, the end of his statement backed by him lifted his trousers up once again and pulling the cinches tight.

“Understood, ser.” The officer finally departed.

With a smothered scream of irritability, Gaerwyn followed suit, already longing for the feel of Cullen’s hands on her body.

“I… um…” He glanced at Gaerwyn, but bashfulness forced his gaze elsewhere.

“It’s alright,” she assured him. She tightened the cinches of her trousers, leaving her fully dressed and frustrated. She made a note to discover the soldier's name and pass it on to Sera. “There’s no rush,” she said.

“No. Just… Maker.” Cullen rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m just so relieved that you’re alive and I suppose I was too forward and...”

“Did we move too quickly?” she asked.

“What? No- I mean, I thought…”

“You thought that you had lost me?” Gaerwyn finished, tilting her head to the side. Cullen nodded. “And after you fear losing someone, the moments with them seem all the more precious. All the more at risk of being wasted. Because if you could lose them so easily the first time, what’s to say another situation of similar danger won’t arise? What’s to say that something will be left unsaid or unfinished?” She brushed her lips over his knuckles. “Don’t worry. I rather like living.”

Cullen pulled her into an embrace, seeking out her mouths with his. The kiss was heated enough to elicit a low moan from his throat.

“We shouldn’t keep them waiting,” Gaerwyn said, pressing the flat of her palms against his chest plate. “We’ll talk later.”

She kissed his jaw and stepped away. He left before her, glancing in both directions to make sure no one else was about. It was a given that Leliana’s spies were skulking in the shadows, but both prayed that they would overlook one supply tent.

Gaerwyn departed twenty minutes afterwards, having patted down her hair and smoothed her disheveled attire to the best of her ability. She was incapable of escaping a passing comment made by Varric, or the outright howls of "encouragement" from Sera and Bull.

\--

The following day, Cullen spoke little. During the long trek, he walked alongside the Inquisition forces, paying particular attention to the recruits. He was harsh on the stragglers, but more so on the ones who had been with the Inquisition for longer. Those who had joined a month previously were met with strict, but gentler treatment. Let it not be said that the Commander did not care for his soldiers.

When he brushed close to Gaerwyn, he allowed his hand to drift over hers and squeeze it gently. The tender touch was promptly lost when he continued onward, his gaze set on the ground before him.

The day after, her Commander hardly spoke two words at a time. His skin was a sickly pale, and he couldn’t bear to hold eye contact with anyone.

“Are you feeling alright?” Gaerwyn asked. Progress had been halted so that the mounts could be watered and rested.

“I’m fine,” he said shortly. He was strangely tense.

“Do you need anything? I could get you food? Tea?” She reached a hand out to check for a fever. Cullen balked from her touch.

“I’m fine,” he repeated. “I don't need your help, Gaerwyn! I didn't become Commander of the Inquisition by being incessantly coddled.”

He raised his voice enough for the surrounding bystanders to hear. They stared at him in horror, their gazes flicking from the Commander to the Herald. What sort of brawl might occur, some may have wondered. The few who knew that their relationship was far more intimate than a professional one appeared all the more horrified. How might the Herald react? Would there be tears? Yelling? A clash of magic and steel?

Gaerwyn cracked a weak smile. “Of course.”

With that, she went to see to her mount.

The words had hardly left his mouth and he regretted them. The regret was promptly enhanced by a sharp blow to his shoulder. 

“What is your problem?” Bull snarled. He took a gander at the Commander’s face, and his fierce expression settled into a thin line. “Withdrawal is a bitch, but was that really necessary?”

Cullen didn’t respond. Already, he could see the kindled romance being extinguished by his words. He could imagine the baleful glares that Gaerwyn would spare him. The heartbroken smiles. What may be described as a sinking feeling by some, felt more on par with a hole being blown into the mast of a ship for Cullen.

“Apologizing is a start,” Bull said, breaking the Commander from his ruminations. The Qunari shouldered past him, throwing the human off balance with his bulk alone.

\--

Cullen hadn’t managed to catch Gaerwyn after the Inquisition made camp for the night. She wasn’t in her tent, nor was she conversing with Grand Enchanter Fiona. Vivienne was sympathetic when approached, but her sympathy seemed rather condescending. Varric played by the same tactics he observed when interrogated by Cassandra— potentially ignorant, but obviously knowing something. Cole was more cryptic than usual.

“You would never hurt her. Ever,” the boy had said. “But you made her sad. ‘Have I been coddling? I never thought I coddled anyone...’ A woman in a suit of armor. She has loving eyes, but she covers them with a mask. I like the feather she wears.”

The Commander was met with a chilly reception by the Lady Ambassador as well. She was polite, and able to speak about Inquisition affairs, but did not extend any conversation beyond that. Leliana was, as always, watching in amused contemplation.

All the while his head pounded, he thirsted for water and went unsated, and he tore through the reports that had already accumulated in his makeshift work space. Upon finally turning in for the night, Cullen was plagued with a feverish sweat. Sleep did not come readily, and when it did, it was rife with nightmares.

He was back in Kinloch. He was standing by the Champion of Kirkwall, in outright mutiny against his Knight-Commander. Demons swarmed around him. They taunted him. He cried out but to no avail.

_Cullen…_

_Wake up!_

His eyes snapped open. Gaerwyn knelt beside him, lantern nestled by her leg. She wore a loose tunic over a pair of trousers under her enchanter's coat. Her hair disheveled, casting thick gnarls of red down her neck. Her hand caressed the side of his jaw, the tips of her nails sending a shiver up his spine. He felt a cool cloth on his brow, the water trickling down his neck and soothing his tattered nerves.

“It was a nightmare,” she said gently. “It’s midnight. You’re in the Inquisition encampment. You’re safe.”

A weak gasp escaped his lungs. He sat up, reaching for the mage, but faltering.

“Gaerwyn, forgive me. I am so sorry. I have no excuse- I.” He was silenced by a kiss pressed to his lower lip. “The Lyrium withdrawal…”

“I know,” she said. “You displayed the symptoms I had observed previously.”

She sat down on his cot. “Do I… mother you?”

“No! No… Maker, I never.” He cushioned her face, framing it with his hands. “I’ve ruined everything, haven’t I?”

“The world is still moving beyond this tent. I’d argue you haven’t,” she said. “I just wanted to know is all.”

“You don't coddle,” he said firmly. “What I said… I hate when people worry. You caring about others doesn’t reflect poorly on you. You have never crossed a line, and you have never coddled me. Coddling would imply you keep me away from the danger. It always seems so condescending. You must know that you have never done that.”

“May I come closer?” Gaerwyn requested.

“Please. Please, I… need to hold you.” The last part was spoken with hesitation. As if asking would shatter everything, and she would be gone- her forgiveness but a dream. Gaerwyn slipped underneath the blankets and laid her head into the crook of his neck. “I’m sorry.” He continued. “I’m so, so sorry. I…”

The mage stroked his jawline. “I forgive you,” she murmured. “Cullen, you bloody fool, I forgive you.” She kissed him gently, her lips and body pliant when he pulled her into his arms, where she straddled his legs with her body.

“Stay the night,” he begged against her lips.

“Fuck propriety?” she asked with a laugh.

“Fuck it,” he confirmed. He paused. “How did you know to come for me?”

“One of your soldiers came barreling into my tent as I was about to turn in,” she said. She glanced over her shoulder. “He’s fine!”

“Dear Maker,” Cullen groaned into her shoulder. “You’re dismissed! Unless you have watch duty, I expect you to have retired to your tents within the next twenty seconds!” The sounds of clamoring feet followed the threat. He looked up at her. “You could have mentioned they were out there.”

“I honestly forgot until just now,” she said. “I was more concerned with making sure you were alright. I heard you calling out in your sleep and I…” She kissed him, allowing herself to be lost in the feel of his lips on hers. “You need sleep,” Gaerwyn finally said. She removed her boots and coat before lying down next to him. Her Commander curled his arms around her waist, taking plenty of relief when she reciprocated the gesture.

“Thank you, Gaerwyn,” he whispered.

The mage nodded. With a gesture of her hand, the lantern was extinguished.

\--

The following morning was accompanied by lazy kisses and stifled giggles.

Cullen awoke first to find his fever had broken sometime in the night and his headache had receded. He looked to Gaerwyn, who was curled against him. A small pool of drool was forming on her pillow, while a few stray locks of hair clung to her face.

“Gaerwyn,” Cullen said, rasping his stubble against her jawline. He feathered his fingers over bare shoulder, noting she had stripped off her outer layer of clothing sometime in the night… leaving her in nothing but her chemise. The opaque material betrayed the curvature of her figure in the morning light.

She scrunched her nose in response. “Is something wrong?” she asked.

“I haven’t greeted you properly this morning,” he said, nipping the lobe of her ear. “High society would have my head.”

“Are you feeling better?” She slowly sat up.

“Very.” He caught her lips in a kiss, one which she reciprocated with such gentleness. She ran her fingers through his hair, releasing a soft hum.

She smiled sleepily. “I’m glad.” She tugged at a blanket, pulling it over her exposed shoulders. Cullen caught the slightest glimpse of an old scar, but thought best not to mention it. While still wrapped in his bed cover, Gaerwyn pulled herself into Cullen’s lap and proceeded to kiss him with a groggy affection. He encircled his arms around her form, pressing his chest to hers. Her breath was warm on his lips, and her fingers left small indents in his skin.

“That… is a proper good morning,” she said breathlessly.

“We should probably get ready—“ The mage had already reclaimed his lips with hers. He growled into her mouth, running his tongue over her lower lip. She opened her mouth, moaning softly when he accompanied the languid strokes of his tongue with his warm hands on her breasts. The gauzy fabric caught on the rough facets of his calloused palms, causing her to shiver with arousal. She abandoned the blankets in a pool behind her, pulling Cullen back with her, and effectively on top.

He reclined beside her, pressing kisses to her exposed flesh and lazily rasping his stubble over her cheek. If not for the soldiers being roused from their sleep and making a distinct ruckus, the two would have drifted off in the midst of peppering the other with kisses and sensual caresses.

“The day shines brightly,” Gaerwyn groaned. She sat up slowly, her hair a mass of tangles on one side of her head. “According to Solas, we don’t have much farther to go. I suppose that’s a relief.”

Cullen nodded. “I never thought I’d want a hot bath as much as I do now,” he said.

“I think a cold bath would serve you better right now,” the mage returned, eyeing his crotch.

“I can’t argue that.”

The mage stood, stretching lazily. Cullen followed, grasping up her clothing. It was a simple matter of dressing another individual, but when said individual was constantly making suggestive remarks or teasingly squirming away, that was another matter entirely. Her Commander was successful in dressing the mage, and pulling her in for one final kiss.

“I’ll see you soon,” she promised.

\--

Skyhold was, in a word, utterly majestic. Never had Gaerwyn thought that the Inquisition would take asylum in anything beyond a small encampment. She had honestly expected to take up a next-to-permanent-residence in a tent nestled into the mountains’ embrace for an unmarked stint of time. Up until Solas informed her of this place, she was certain the others were also pondering what sort of living conditions would be available to the Inquisition.

Granted, she had spent a week of traveling sleeping in a small tent, the promise of it temporariness made it somewhat more tolerable.

She barely managed to settle into the renovated chamber trailing off of Skyhold’s main hall when she was summoned by Cassandra. She was met in the courtyard, where soldiers, refugees, and Chantry personnel milled about, seeing to the multiple nuances that kept the Inquisition running seamlessly. The Seeker dismissed the Nightingale, Ambassador, and Commander, making it clear that she intended to speak with Gaerwyn privately and to some length. Cullen glanced back at Gaerwyn, nodding assuredly before he took to tending to whatever duties needed tending. Gaerwyn was clueless on that front.

What the Seeker proposed next came as an honest shock. They wanted her to become the Inquisitor? Cullen and Josephine had acquired a vast collection of books examining previous Inquisitions and their leaders at Gaerwyn’s request –books which she managed to read through in a matter of weeks. All the same, she was a mage. If she accepted the title, she would be raised to the status of Mage Inquisitor. The first. She hadn’t been raised to lead armies or broker deals with nobility. She had an adequate handle on politics that Leliana and Josephine were cultivating in their spare time, and, according to them, acquiring exceptional results. While Cassandra soothingly assured the Herald she need not worry about those aspects of her new position, it did little to allay her fears.

Calmly, Cassandra brought her to the base of the stairs that led up to the Main Hall. She paused, placing her hands on the mage’s shoulders.

“The Inquisition would have died out back in Haven without your strength,” the Seeker said. “You are the guiding force behind the alliance with the mages, and I doubt that without you, we would have acquired the aid of Iron Bull and Blackwall and the like. Please, lend us your strength once more.”

Gaerwyn bit her lip. Becoming Herald was one of the most terrifying experiences of her life. The constant pressures of her position as a mage increased tenfold, and she had no doubt that if she chose to accept the role as Inquisitor, that burden would grow thusly once more. The question wanted to be begged though: who could lead in her stead? Cassandra certainly could. While she lacked qualities that would endear her to the nobility, she carried the charisma and militaristic mind to lead an army. Yet the people wanted the one soul “chosen” by Andraste. The mage could front any argument in avoidance of the title, but she would lose each time solely because of what the people believed.

“The Inquisition requires a leader: the one who has already been leading it,” Cassandra said, voice gentle.

Together, Cassandra and Gaerwyn mounted the stairs to where Leliana stood waiting. She balanced a massive blade in her hands, holding it forth for the new Inquisitor. The hilt was fashioned to appear as if it were a dragon, coiled and ready to strike. The sword looked far too heavy for Gaerwyn to hold aloft, given the fact that her training did not rely on strength so much as it did agility and quick-thinking. 

She saw the masses milling about below, saw them look up to her in expectation. She felt her stomach clench and her mouth go dry. So many lives were depending on her.

Cassandra looked to her, finishing her prior statement with one word: “You.”

“A mage, no, a Tranquil, at the head of the Inquisition?!” Gaerwyn said, aghast.

With unspoken reservation, Gaerwyn hoisted the blade in one hand, balancing it with the tip pointed skyward.

“Not a mage,” Cassandra said. “You.”

“I still happen to be one,” she argued.

“I will not pretend that no one will object, but times are changing. Perhaps this is what the Maker intended.” Gaerwyn groaned internally. Certainly, she had been raised in a devout family and lived under the Chantry’s unwavering gaze for much of her life, but both had done nothing to prepare her for this decision. She forced the lump in her throat down, finding it settled squarely beneath her collarbone.

“There would be no Inquisition without you. How it will serve, how you lead: that must be yours to decide.” The Seeker certainly knew how to encourage when the need was dire.

She accepted.

The blade was heavy, like the duty she would be taking upon herself. She hoisted the sword into one hand, with the point reaching skyward. Cullen and Josephine were in the crowd below, watching. She looked to her Commander to see that he smiled in support of her decision.

“I’ll defeat Corypheus standing with them, not over them,” she said softly. “I… I don’t see how this could be any more difficult than overcoming my own trials.” She wasn’t pleased with her answer, but she let it stand. She perceived some vanity in claiming that if she miraculously survived her own personal ordeals as a former Tranquil, that she could pull the Inquisition through whatever may lay before them.

“Wherever you lead us,” Cassandra affirmed. She stepped to the edge of the platform. “Have our people been told?” she called to the Ambassador and Commander.

“They have,” Josephine responded. “And soon, the world.” It didn’t seem like theatrics. Not like when they nailed the proclamation to the Chantry door.

“Commander,” Cassandra gestured to Cullen. “Will they follow?”

“Inquisition! Will you follow?” Cullen asked, his voice carrying throughout the courtyard.

Their people responded with resonating battle cries.

“Will you fight?”

Another round of approving roars, capped off by the Chargers crowing their support from the flank of the crowd.

“Will we triumph?”

The roars turned to howls that threatened to deafen all.

Cullen drew his blade with some flourish, and pointed it to the mage. “Your leader! Your Herald! Your Inquisitor!”

In response, Gaerwyn thrust the sword into the air, her arm buoyed up by the effervescent support of the Inquisition. Their people. Her people. She bit back a smile when noting how Josephine was swayed by the near palpable energy, and how she joined in on the cries of victory only to be embarrassed by her lapse in propriety.

It was all so overwhelming, and yet so accepting of her. She inhaled, straightening her posture so to better balance the blade over her head. Why was it so heavy? It was clearly for decorative purposes. Aesthetic didn’t require weight!

She lowered the blade, finding her laughter was coupled with deep breaths to calm the heart slamming in her chest. The energy threatened to make her swoon!

She was swept into the Great Hall by her –now- advisors, away from the noise and the people… a sudden lack of attention that was felt on a fibrous level.

\--

“Inquisitor Trevelyan,” Gaerwyn said, as she approached the Commander, “It sounds odd, doesn’t it?”

“No. I don’t think so,” he said. He glanced up from the report detailing the repairs needed for the army barracks

Gaerwyn leaned against the table, folding her arms over her chest. “Oh?”

“You have proven yourself,” Cullen insisted.

She laughed softly. “Thank you, Cullen.” His smile was enough to turn her legs to jelly. Maker, weren’t they past this stage in their relationship? “Our escape from Haven… it was close. I’m relieved that you- that so many, made it out.” They didn’t have the privacy that Gaerwyn felt necessitated a confession of heartfelt feelings required. Propriety. Maintain. Propriety. At. All. Costs. Fuck.

“As am I.” They hadn’t discussed what occurred back in Haven. Not since she arrived at the forward camp, injured, and barely standing on her own. Cullen turned his gaze to the side, as if in thought. His mouth drew into the frown she came to associate with gripping apprehension.

Feeling as if the conversation had drawn to a close, Gaerwyn turned her attentions towards the makeshift clinic nearby. She was informed that the healers may require assistance, and she was happy to provide what she could on that front.

“You stayed behind,” she heard him say. “You could have- I will not allow the events at Haven to happen again. You have my word.” His last sentence was punctuated by him taking her hand in his, the soft leather creasing to mold around her shape.

She would never have thought he felt guilt over her choice to remain in Haven. It was her decision.

Then the first week of traversing through the Frostbacks returned to the forefront of her memory. In particular, the way he held her with such desperation, his breath shaky and gaze averted as if ashamed. There had been stolen moments of fervent kisses, his lips pressed against hers and words of thanks given to the Maker when he pulled away. She assumed the sheen in his eyes had been an irritation caused by the campfires. Now… she was beginning to think otherwise. 

“My quarters, after dinner,” she said softly. “I’d like to see you…”

Cullen nodded. “I can’t make any promises. Not with us trying to settle in with all this chaos.”

“That’s alright,” Gaerwyn murmured. “Believe me when I say I will not hold a grudge. Just… if you have time.”

“Of course.” She folded her free hand over his, letting her touch linger for as long as possible.

\--

Although he sounded uncertain, Cullen appeared not but ten minutes after dinner adjourned. He supped with the forces that evening in hopes of encouraging morale- though after Gaerwyn being named Inquisitor, near everyone was in high spirits. It was like sitting at the center of a maelstrom composed of sheer energy. Out of the corner of his eye, he could have sworn he saw Gaerwyn eating with two foot soldiers and Bull, but he opted not to draw attention to her. She was easily exhausted by large crowds. Her being within one was an impressive feat in itself!

Upon Gaerwyn pulling the door to her chambers open in one fast motion, he realized his inquiry was proven correct. She was unbuckling a pauldron and tossing it aside when he entered.

“Ah, Bull wanted me to know who I’m working with. Can’t exactly say I’ll stand with them when I don’t know their faces or names, now can I?” she said in way of explanation.

The Commander smirked. “You wished to see me?” He wondered just exactly what that meant. The conversation they had prior to the attack on Haven came to mind, when she invited him to share her bed.

Gaerwyn leaned forward, brushing a kiss over his cheek. “Yes,” she whispered. She slipped her hand into his, tugging him towards the flight of stairs that ascended to her quarters.

A massive mound of books was piled on her desk and pooling over into stacks on the floor. Her lute lay propped by her bed, along with a few packages of clothing spilling their contents onto the thick down covers and brocaded rug.

She urged him towards the steaming hot bath set at the center of the room. “You mentioned you wanted a hot bath, yes?”

Cullen found himself chuckling. “I didn’t expect it to be in your quarters.”

“I’ll avert my sinful eyes,” she said with a growing grin. “There’s a lot of work ahead. What with us rebuilding the Inquisition, I thought you deserved to rest before that was fully set into motion.”

“I… thank you.” He was speechless. Both were attentive of the other’s little grievances- and did what they could with limited resources to ensure those needs were met. Still, every time the other did something small, such as this, it seemed enough to warrant a blustered thanks.

Gaerwyn hummed her response. She melted into his kiss with hardly any encouragement, and pulled back after a short moment of bliss.

“I need to unpack some more. I’ll leave you to it. There’s a partition in the closet if you would like privacy.” She turned her back to him and proceeded to shelve the books currently littering her desk and floor.

The partition seemed somewhat unnecessary. What with him being submerged in water, he was hardly concerned with indecency.

It took twenty minutes for him to remove his armor and another two to strip off his underclothes. He submerged himself in the hot bath, releasing a long sigh as he settled his weary limbs into the tub. With the constant demand for his presence while drilling recruits, the prospect of soaking for an hour or so was contrary to what he usually expected. Though it wasn’t unwelcome.

He took to watching Gaerwyn over the rim of the tub, finding some quiet solace in how she would lean against the edge of her desk and crack open a book. How her fingers would drift over the pages. Or how she would, with some reluctance, place the tome onto a waiting shelf. A small candle illuminated her work, coloring her skin a heady honey-gold color.

“There are some bathing oils by the tub,” she said, without glancing up. “And some soaps. Be forewarned: the oils are Orlesian.”

He lifted one from the small assortment, his arm leaving a trail of water on the stone floor. “Essence of rose and dragonthorn,” he read aloud. “The design on the front is rather nice.” He plucked up another container by the lid. “Elfroot balm with essence of rosemary…”

“Ah… that’s for stiff muscles,” Gaerwyn said. “I use it after long marches. The Hinterlands were awful. I probably went through three containers.” She looked up finally, her cheeks coloring a fiery red when she saw the upper part of his chest. She turned away, busying herself with a book.

“Would you… help me with this?” he asked, not knowing how to phrase his entreaty exactly. “My neck and shoulders have been rather sore lately.”

“I should imagine.” She set the book down and approached the tub. The water was warm enough, and doctored with a few herbs that clouded his visage so much so that Cullen didn't feel overly conscious of his lower half being visible. “Hand it over," she said gently.

She scooped the balm out with hooked fingers, transferring the cream to both hands by lathering it over her palms. It warmed the skin of his shoulders, gradually easing the tight knots forming there. His head dipped back against the rim of the tub, resting against Gaerwyn’s shoulder. She shifted to accommodate his weight, but kept her focus on her task.

“You’re beautiful, you know that?” 

She paused. “Well, coming from a dashing fellow such as yourself…”

“Please don’t deflect what I’m saying,” he said pleadingly. He rolled over so that he could kneel whilst facing her, only to have his legs slip over the sleek surface of the tub’s bottom. He submerged briefly, only to resurface to Gaerwyn’s muffled giggles.

She covered her mouth with the back of her hand, tears beading at the corners of her eyes. Her face was reddening with the effort to not collapse into a fit of hysterical laughter.

“It’s not that funny,” he sputtered.

Her howls intensified with his indignation. Cullen responded by splashing her. She made a weak attempt at shielding herself, with much of the water sloshing onto her trousers.

She retaliated in a similar manner. The mage reached forward to skim her hand over the heated surface only to lose her footing on a puddle gathering on the floor, and effectively sent herself toppling into the water

The Commander felt as if his heart had ceased beating, and his lungs stuttered to a halt. She had rather gracelessly fallen atop of his reclining form, flailing in a panicked effort to reach the edge of the tub. Cullen grasped her around the center, pulling her to the surface. She coughed loudly while trying to recapture a lungful of air. Her fingers scrabbled over his chest before finally settling on his shoulders.

“You alright?” he asked, pushing her hair out of her face. He checked for a head injury, breathing a sigh of relief upon finding none. She nodded.

“Fine. I can’t really complain about being waterlogged in a tub with a handsome man, now can I?” She laughed, all the while inhaling deeply.

Cullen smirked. “And I with a seductive mage who can’t take a compliment?”

“I can take a compliment… just, it’s strange is all.” She pushed a damp lock of hair behind her ear. “I don’t know why. It just is… Maker, I should—“ As the mage made an attempt to stand, Cullen placed a hand on her waist.

“Please stay.”

She halted, one of her hands steadied on the lip of the tub. “You… don’t mind me here?”

Wordlessly, Cullen leaned forward and wrapped his arms around her waist. He eased her back into the water with him, where she settled herself between his side and arm. She nuzzled into his shoulder, her breath soft against his chest.

“I’m glad you’re alive,” he finally said. “I just want you to know that—“

Gaerwyn kissed his forehead.

“—That I believe you are the ideal Inquisitor,” he finished.

She smiled. “The Inquisitor is nothing without the people who stand by her.”

“She gives herself far too little credit.”

“She also enjoys speaking in third person, evidently,” Gaerwyn kissed his chest. “She also wants her Commander not to torment himself with the events that occurred at Haven.”

Cullen swallowed. “I… you nearly…”

The mage sighed. “I know. But we’re here now.”

“That we are.” He had memorized that look in her eye. One of sheer, adamant conviction. The Commander took more comfort than what might be expected from that stare.

“If it’s alright with you, I think I’m going to kiss you now,” she said.

Cullen happily obliged. He wanted to remember this. This one fleeting moment of happiness snared in a war effort. How the soaked fabric of her tunic was like a second skin in itself. Or how the way she sighed against his lips was maddening. How her hair caught the firelight, and how she moaned into a kiss. The way her fingers stroked his chest in a complex, aimless design. Or the way she would nip at his lower lip in a successful effort at eliciting a husked growl of pleasure from her Commander.

She nestled into his arms and fell asleep with her head placed in the crook of his neck, her breath warm on his lips. Cullen drifted into a slumber shortly afterwards, waking only when the water had cooled to a weak lukewarm. He glanced to the open balcony door, where the rustling of a cool winter air made itself known via a low whisper that raised his flesh into a pebbled texture. Gaerwyn murmured sleepily, before bringing herself all the closer to her Commander. For now, Cullen wished for them to remain as such. Unhindered by duty and the outside world, and away from the prying eyes of onlookers and enemy alike. While short lived, he intended on impressing every small detail of this night into his mind. The faint scents of lavender and jasmine mingling on his flesh. The cooling water lapping at his form. The mountain wind breezing through the room. The buckles of Gaerwyn's tunic warming against his chest. Perhaps he was being frivolous by concerning himself with such trifles. For now though, Cullen would relish in coloring this memory with all that his senses could absorb. 

Outside the night stood vigilant, with the only light being cast by a dusting of stars on a sable cloak of velvet. For the first time since Haven, the two were completely alone in the other’s embrace- taking solace in the arms of a lover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo... this chapter was really a bunch of fluff. I'll be adding in quite a few tags after this one. I realize that the chapter was disjointed, but I wanted to cover some ground in a timely fashion. I have wanted to write that bath scene for so long.
> 
> The reason why I pulled the romance between Gaerwyn and Cullen forward in this fic was mostly due to the aftermath of what had occurred at Haven. I wanted to examine what it would be like for both characters if they were already in a relationship prior to Corypheus making his grand appearance.
> 
> I figured something similar to this would occur.
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading!
> 
> Comments help me know what I'm doing right and what I can improve. Don't be a stranger!


	22. The Tranquil's Ire (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaerwyn is attacked by a Skyhold Templar. She works with Cullen to discover the root of the problem, and pass down judgement from there.
> 
> Cullen learns more about why Gaerwyn was made Tranquil, and what sort of scars she has been carrying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a long chapter. I know. Due to the length of the chapter, I'm splitting it into two parts. The second part will be up sometime today or tomorrow morning.
> 
>  
> 
> **NSFW Content**
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for reading!

“You wanted to see me?” Gaerwyn inquired as she entered Cullen’s office. He had claimed one of the towers that overlooked the gate leading out of Skyhold for his quarters. While something of a ramshackle, Gaerwyn found herself drawn to the tower for many a reason- him acting as the main one.

“Ah, yes.” He glanced up from his paperwork and smiled. “I have something for you.”

“Oh? You didn’t have to—“ She was cut off when Cullen stepped around the desk and brushed his lips over her cheek. “It’s good to see you. Now, here’s this.”

He made a vague gesture towards a parcel on his desk. Gaerwyn took little time in approaching and untying the frayed twine. A gasp left her lips when she looked on the gift- she covered her mouth to stifle a squeal.

“You mentioned that you wanted to fight alongside our forces, not above them. I thought this would make it easier,” Cullen said in way of explanation.

Arms were suddenly secured around his neck, and kisses were peppered over his features in a flurry of affection. “Thank you,” she murmured. “Thank you, Cullen.”

“Care to try it on?”

“I’ll be commandeering your bedroom,” she informed him. The mage snatched up the parcel and promptly ascended the ladder leading to the overhead room. She had asked to see the upper floor of his tower upon him first claiming it as his own. She was genuinely amused by how austere the quarters were, stating she found his living space to be near identical to his rooms in Haven, save for the noticeable disappearance of the decadent Orlesian chair.

When asked for an explanation, her Commander responded with: “It came between me and the blade of a rather irritable red Templar.”

He could hear the rustle of fabric as she removed her usual lounge-about tunic and trousers, replacing the plain attire with the new outfit. Overhead he heard the mage begin to growl in frustration- the sound was suddenly accompanied by hopping.

“Do you need help?” he called to her.

There was a loud thud as her body made contact with the bedroom floor. “I’m fine,” she groaned.

As he made for the ladder, he saw the telltale sight of Gaerwyn’s boots. She descended with ease to stand before her Commander in an Inquisition Battlemage uniform. While perhaps not as impressive as her usual armor, the armor provided for Inquisition soldiers offered the protection and discretion Gaerwyn desired. The gloves were reinforced with an enchantment that permitted the casting of spells whilst not destroying the material. A thick vest layered with padding was fitted to her chest, while a belt affixed with various pouches was situated on her hips. The final touch was a burning orange scarf clasped in place with a broach detailing the Inquisition’s insignia around her shoulders. She was, in a word, radiant.

“How do I look?” she asked.

“Not like the Inquisitor,” he responded.

“Thank the Maker!” Gaerwyn leaned against the ladder, her excitement evident.

“Now you can mingle with the soldiers without concern for your title,” Cullen said.

“What will happen if I see you dressed as I am now?”

“That’s entirely up to you,” he replied. “Keep in mind, you could easily give yourself away if you choose to not salute a Commander.”

“Always the voice of reason.” Gaerwyn stepped forward, meeting the Commander halfway. “Thank you. It’s perfect,” she murmured.

“Good.” He brushed his lips over her bare neck, tugging at the scarf as he drifted his mouth lower. She gasped softly when he proceeded to change the pacing of his kiss into a firm suckling. Her legs wobbled, as if threatening to buckle beneath her. She grappled onto his shoulders, fighting the urge to moan.

She brought his mouth to hers, whispering breathy words of gratitude against his lips.

“The mages have drills in half an hour, if you wish to mingle amongst them. There’s also a small mixed patrol leaving in two hours to explore the surrounding area. I can add you to the roster if you’d like,” he offered.

“I’ll be considered fresh blood amongst them.” She laughed. “As much as I would love to explore, perhaps it would be wiser to attend to the drills. I’m a new, starry-eyed recruit, after all.” She adjusted the hair framing her face so to better cover her forehead. While the style was messy and sprang up at jaunty angles, it served the purpose of covering the sunburst brand.

Cullen chuckled. “Alright. I shan’t keep you then.”

With that, she embraced him briefly before making for the door that led down into the merchant’s courtyard. Within moments, Cullen could hear a mage instructor reprimanding the Inquisitor for racing about like a mindless barbarian.

Having read through a sizable pile of reports, Cullen opted to lie down for a spell. He ascended the ladder to his quarters to see the Inquisitor’s usual attire pooled into a pile by his bedside. While a crumpled mess of clothing would typically irk the Commander during his days of sharing quarters with fellow Templars, seeing Gaerwyn’s clothing there was oddly endearing. As if leaving her things there promised an imminent return.

With a sigh, Cullen plucked up the first article of clothing, folding it neatly and stowing it on top of his storage chest. Her worn boots were set at the base of the chest, but refused to stand upright.

It was odd how her clothing and the scent of her skin lingering over the fabric would call forth such lurid fantasies. He longed to run his lips over her breasts, drifting lower to her stomach, and even further to the juncture of her legs. To wake beside her with their garb shed and no barrier of any sort between the two. To kiss her scars in comfort and want.

Cullen berated himself. He laid down on his side and tried to push those lewd thoughts to the furthest recesses of his mind. Said thoughts would not be repressed, try as he may.

\--

“Unhand me!” The Inquisitor’s screams of indignant rage reached Cullen before she did.

The Commander was prompt to respond to her panic by throwing open the door leading onto the battlements. Gaerwyn was fighting against the vice grips of two Templars who were in the process of dragging her towards Cullen’s tower. She was still clad in the standard armor of the Inquisition, the sunburst brand only slightly visible under her disheveled hair. She slammed her foot down onto the first Templar’s armored boot, releasing a primal screech of rage.

“Release her! Now!” Cullen cursed himself for that split second of hesitation. The Templars complied upon hearing the edge in their Commander’s voice, one that matched the Inquisitor’s. She slumped to the ground in a crumpled pile of limbs.

He made a swift advance to where the lass lay, kneeling before her.

“Did they hurt you?” he asked gently.

She stared up at him, her eyes adopting a wet sheen. “I… my magic… I can’t call on it.” Never had she sounded so helpless, so subdued. He had to fight every impulse to launch himself at the Templars and rake their throats out. How dare they hurt her!

Cullen’s gaze shifted to the two Templars, transmuting into a murderous glare. “Did you perform a Smite on her?”

“Y-yes, Commander,” the younger of the two said. “She came across one of the lyrium brands for the rite and—“

“I thought I ordered for those to be removed! Melted down,” Cullen snarled.

“With all due respect, Commander,” the elder began, “Some of the men have experienced horrific things at the hands of mages. Coming from Kirkwall and seeing what Orsino did to himself, well, it was some small element of security. While the brands may not be used, unless under the direct orders of the council or Inquisitor, having them there brings some comfort.”

“Did you attack anyone?” Cullen asked. Gaerwyn stared at him incredulously. “You know I have to ask these questions,” he said softly. She shook her head. His gaze swiveled back to her offenders. “Well?”

“S-she didn’t,” the younger one said. “I-I… overreacted, Commander. She began to raise her voice and I… panicked.”

“Honesty. Well, at least there’s some decency left in this world,” he spat. “I will deal with you later. Until then, I expect you to be confined to the barracks. Away from all mages. Dismissed.”

The elder Templar grasped the younger by the back of his head, yanking him in the direction of their quarters.

“Wait… you realize you raised your hand to your leader, correct?” Cullen called after the two.

The elder swerved around. “What?!”

“This is the Inquisitor,” was all Cullen said as explanation.

Ignoring all propriety, Cullen lifted Gaerwyn into his arms and carried her to his office. She was shaking. He had yet to find a chair for guests, so he opted to set her down atop his desk. Pulling the door closed, he proceeded to speak in gentle, soothing tones.

“Are you alright?”

“I… don’t… will it come back? My magic? I can’t…” He turned to see her cupping a dying flame in her hands. The force of her sobs caused the wee thing to gutter out, leaving a halo of soot on her palm. She completely broke down then. Her hands went to her face, enclosing her mouth and eyes in a muffled grip.

Cullen was at a loss. He had consoled her in the past, but this, this reaction was unlike anything he’d ever seen before.

Gaerwyn slid off the desk and staggered to the door. She opened it, only to vomit past the threshold.

He forced himself to move then. He approached her, placing one hand over her shoulder and another around her waist.

“Your magic will come back,” he whispered gently. “This is temporary. I promise.”

“I’m sorry,” she choked. “I’m so sorry.”

“Why… Maker, why are you apologizing?”

“If I had just come to you instead of asking them… I felt so angry. And then… the Fade. I couldn’t feel it anymore. W-why did he do this? It’s not there. It’s always been there!” She broke into a fresh bout of weeping.

He pulled her into a weary embrace, folding his arms around her, surrounding her with his warmth. “You did nothing wrong,” he said fiercely. “I’m here. I’m here.”

Dorian had agreed to a chess match in the garden- one which the Commander had forgotten about with the sudden chaos. So to see the Tevinter mage standing in the open doorway, watching in complete, horrified silence, was explanation enough for Cullen's absence. Dorian’s usually trained, dapper demeanor had transfigured to that of an enraged brother. Conjured flames burned at the tips of his fingers, and his eyes spoke for the volumes of spite coiled in his stomach.

Ever since the two had taken that brief trip to Redcliffe together, they had seemed closer, practically familial. There were nights when Cullen would visit the library to see the two mages hunched over a vast stack of tomes, whispering animatedly about one topic or another. On the way to war councils, he would enter the rotunda to hear the two speaking at loud volumes, laughing at one jape or another with abandon. It was obvious that their relationship would remain that of two siblings, what with how aggressively they protected each other and how openly they jested in public; it wasn’t an issue defining the significance of their friendship. Of their relationship being anything more than familial, Cullen had no concerns.

“I take it our resident Templars got a bit familiar then?” he said. “Anything I can do?”

“Not killing them would be preferable,” Cullen responded. He guided the Inquisitor back to his desk, and assisted her as she sat down once more.

Dorian barked out a sharp laugh. “I would certainly be living up to Tevinter stereotypes, now wouldn’t I? How are you holding up?” He directed the last statement towards Gaerwyn.

“I feel… emptier. I can feel the Fade coming back to me slowly but… it’s like listening to an echo from the mouth of a cave," Gaerwyn whispered. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears.

“Do you need anything? I can stay.”

“Thank you, Dorian. I… I’m alright. Shaken, obviously.” She shrugged slightly.

“You know where I am if you need me.” He squeezed her shoulders in emphasis before disappearing through the entrance he appeared in. “And, Commander.” Cullen looked to the Tevinter mage. “Try not to dismember your own men. It would appear quite unwholesome.”

They were alone again. Gaerwyn was uncharacteristically silent, her head drooping over her hands as a wave of fatigue settled in. “Maker… the Fade hasn’t been so quiet since I was Tranquil. I… it’s always been a friendly touch on my back, or a faint whisper in my ear. It plays at my fingertips when I cast a spell. I feel sick. This is everything Tranquility is, save for the fact that I’m horrified.” She pressed the heel of her hand to her eye in an attempt to stave off more tears.

“Is there anything I can do?” Cullen asked, no, pleaded. “Anything at all?”

The mage smiled wanly. “Would you care to trounce me in a game of chess?”

He chuckled, despite himself. “It would be an honor, my lady.”

\--

The next few hours were passed in silence, the only sound being the soft shifting of game pieces on the lacquered wood board. Gaerwyn would curse whenever one of her game pieces was captured, yet remained otherwise impassive. Save for the red rimming her downcast eyes, there was little indication of how she felt.

Cullen called for tea after two hours. While Gaerwyn had attempted to take a drink at one point, the cup threatened to slosh its contents over her front due to the tremors coursing up her arm. She opted to set aside her efforts until she could better hold the cup aloft. 

After having lost four games in a row, she finally sat back. With a gentility that the spell hardly ever demanded, Gaerwyn coaxed the manifestation of a hearty flame into her hand. It flickered briefly but remained strong and consistent.

“Do you wish to speak about what happened?” Cullen asked gently. He opened his arms for her as she settled in his lap, leaning into the curvature of his chest. Never had he held her as desperately as he did then. Thoughts cropped up in his mind: ponderings that made him question whether she would associate him with the Templar who did this. He was their Commander… but would she simply accept his ignorance?

Doubt plagued his mind, made him question his worth. Would she look at him the same way after all this? Or would her gaze dull in affection?

“I won’t say I’m not upset,” the mage returned. “Or that we’ll agree. These are your soldiers.”

“They’re yours as well,” he pressed. “What happened exactly?”

“I was visiting the Templar barracks by Vivienne’s bidding. She wanted me to hand a message over to one of your lieutenants about some sort of task around Skyhold- she didn’t specify really. I suppose around the keep I should wear my Inquisitor’s regalia, but I opted not to because I honestly didn’t think it would make a difference.” She leaned forward and steeped her fingers. “The younger Templar was arranging their personal storeroom and he came out holding three lyrium brands. Wanted to know where to put them.”

She shut her eyes. “I was standing right there. I asked quietly at first what they were for. When he didn’t answer I raised my voice. He sort of stared at me, as if just realizing I had been there the entire time. I continued to press and he panicked. The rest is a bit of a blur. It felt as if someone grabbed my shoulder and everything went silent. Then I was thrown to the ground with a knee jammed into my back. After then, well… they dragged me to you.”

Cullen leaned forward, pressing his hands against his face. “This is my fault,” he said suddenly. “I was charged with doing inspections and I—“

“I don’t blame you for this, Cullen,” Gaerwyn said quietly. “I’m upset, certainly, but I want the situation resolved.” She pushed the hair out of her eyes. “I’m concerned with how the Templars are treating the other mages here. If one could be so quick to Smite, what’s to say they haven’t done it to another?”

“Maker, this isn’t supposed to be another Circle. I’ll speak with my lieutenants. I’ll have the brands melted down by sunset, if you so wish it.”

“Fiona is rather frank about most topics. I’ll see what her opinion is on having the brands in Skyhold.”

“The decision will fall to you, Gaerwyn,” Cullen said. He leaned forward and placed a hand to her cheek, caressing her jaw. “What do you want done?”

“I… I can’t make a decision for the collective.”

“You’re the Inquisitor. The collective will stand behind that decision.”

“What of you?” she asked. Her gaze was piercing.

“Do you think I’ll so readily disagree with what you decide?” He rose to his feet. “I want you to feel safe in your home. That being said, if you choose to destroy the brands, I will see it done myself. If you wish for them to remain in safe keeping, I will entrust the key to you.”

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“I’ll speak with the Templar who chose to smite you as well…”

“It would be for the best if you did. I can’t say that the bastard that did this would come out of a conversation with me unscathed. I can assure you, there is only one Templar who should be allowed to Smite me. Former Templar, I should say,” she said, the euphemism all too apparent. 

Cullen proceeded to fidget with a pile of reports on his desk in an effort to hide his blush. “I, ah, well, I…”

Gaerwyn brushed a kiss over his knuckles. “We’ll talk later.”

\--

Cullen entered the barracks to find a huddled mass of soldiers and Templars alike speaking in hushed whispers. Upon clearing his throat, they stood at attention.

“Lieutenant, a word.”

One of his most trusted soldiers stepped forward. “Ser?”

The Commander gestured for his officer to follow him out of the barracks, and away from the prying ears of the others. They took to walking somewhat aimlessly. Though none would dare to approach the Commander then. Not when his features were set into a chilling mask of indifference,

“Did you know about the lyrium brands being kept in storage?” Cullen inquired.

“I did not, ser. Not until this morning, at least.” The man had no reason to lie to Cullen. Not after surviving Kirkwall with him.

“Do you know who exactly was in possession of the brands? You and I have alternated weeks of taking inventory for the storerooms in Templar possession. I struggle to believe it would slip our notice,” Cullen continued. The two had at this point moved from the barracks to the armory’s second floor. The only interruption was the ambient noise of the fire licking at kindling, and the consistent pounding of a hammer shaping a blade.

“I believe it was one of the older Templars. Fillian. He was with us in Kirkwall.”

“That old codger? I… suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Maker, the man is old-fashioned.”

“Why did you allow him into the Inquisition ranks?” his lieutenant pressed.

“We didn’t have forces that were up to snuff before the Inquisitor. He was invested in the cause, and followed orders without hesitation.”

“He isn’t a bad person. The mages are rather fond of him. Some have started calling him grandfather, and so on. All the same, the lyrium is beginning to tax on the man’s mind. He’s becoming forgetful, and at times I fear he struggles to discern the waking world from the one of dreams.” The lieutenant picked up a mug of ale, downing half of it. “He sees Orsino sometimes. Meredith, when it’s worse.”

“Why wasn’t this brought to my attention?” Cullen asked in incredulity.

“I submitted a report three days ago,” was the response. “His health began to worsen after Haven. I suspect he’s been hiding the worst of his symptoms for much of this campaign.”

“I… see.” Cullen was at a loss. “The Templar who attacked the… mage. Who was he?” He couldn’t exactly say that the mage was the Inquisitor. The more faithful of the Chantry would be frothing and pawing for the man’s blood. Until Cullen knew everything, he didn’t dare disclose Gaerwyn’s part in all this.

“Nor? He’s an awkward one, I’ll give him that. I’ve had a few mages complain that he puts them on edge with his shakiness. I suspect he didn’t join the Order willingly, and I fear that the mage alliance wasn’t something he viewed kindly.”

“You saw the exchange, yes?”

“Was drawn to it by the mage’s yelling,” he said with a shrug. “She kept a respectful distance, and wasn’t intimidating so much as she was panicking. I don’t think Nor could tell the difference. She made a gesture, sort of imploring.” The lieutenant held his hands out with the palms facing upward. “Nor panicked, grabbed her and performed the Smite. She moved to pull away, and he threw her to the ground and placed a knee against her lower back.”

Cullen winced at the description. A burning rage boiled in the pit of his stomach, as if goading him into taking revenge on the fool who had dared hurt Gaerwyn.

“She lashed out in defense, and another of ours, Gavin, moved to restrain her. To be honest, if he hadn’t, she probably would have injured Nor. Not to say the idiot didn’t deserve it. I… for my part, I ordered them to desist, but at that point the barracks was in a frenzy. Never have I seen the Templars so wound up. Some were enraged, others were cowering. The best thing I could do was have her taken to somewhere public. I had Nor and Gavin take her to you… and, well, you probably already know the rest.”

“Did you consider they might have taken her somewhere not so open?”

“Nor is a lot of things, but insubordinate is not one. Gavin’s daughter is a mage- who he kept hidden for half her life using the clout of the Order. He was in the process of being expelled from the Order when the Mage uprising began. If not for him… I don’t think half as many of the mages from his Circle would have made it out alive. I suspected he would protect her from Nor if Nor chose to make a fool of himself again.”

“We have three good men who all did something moronic- is that what you’re trying to say?” Cullen asked in exasperation.

“No. I’m saying we have a situation where one Templar reacted incorrectly and sent everyone into a chaos. Ser, I oversaw the dismantling of all tools used in the Rite of Tranquility, or so I thought. This is the inventory I took afterwards.” He placed the roster on the wooden surface separating the two, skimming a finger over the drawn out graph. “I had originally put down twenty brands here for how many we had,” he pointed at a smudged number that now read seventeen. “I never revised the number. Notice how the account says I had twenty brands destroyed as well. Not edited. I believe that Fillian neglected to change the number. He was one of the two I charged with melting down brands. The other died at Haven.”

“It’s all rather incriminating, isn’t it?”

“Aye.” The lieutenant lifted up a rectangular parcel. “I reclaimed the three brands. I’ll leave them with you, ser.”

“Thank you, lieutenant. This is a start.” Cullen removed the parcel to see brands of silver within. Save for the starburst stud, which was a telltale fluorescent blue. He covered the offending objects once more. “I would speak to Nor and Fillian if possible.”

“I’ll bring you Nor first, if that is acceptable.”

“Please do,” the Commander said. “I’ll need you there, Lieutenant.”

“Ser?”

“If I don't have a witness, I can’t promise I won’t wring his neck like the rodent he is,” Cullen replied darkly.

\--

Gaerwyn received a note as she entered the rotunda. The scout bowed and left without a word. She recognized the paper from Cullen’s desk, and the seal to be the crest of the Inquisition militia. 

Breaking the seal, she was met with a brief missive.

_The Templar who attacked you was named Nor. Fillian was the one who stowed the brands away in the storeroom. I suspect the Grand Enchanter will know something of the two._

_Stay safe._

_-Cullen_

She shoved the paper into her pocket- her now wearing her usual attire. There was little point in wandering around in her new armor- not unless she wanted to draw more attention to herself.

Fiona greeted her with a pensive smile. She gestured for the Inquisitor to sit in a nearby chair as she readied a pot of tea.

“I heard what happened earlier,” Fiona said over her shoulder. “None of the mages under my watch were charged with a letter from Enchanter Vivienne. If one was, it would have been given to a Tranquil. So, Inquisitor, where do you fit into this puzzle?”

“You already know,” Gaerwyn replied with a shrug. “I was the mage.”

“Are you alright?” The Inquisitor wasn't certain if Fiona was sincere in her expressed concern. All the same, she still needed answers.

“I couldn’t feel the Fade. It was utterly horrifying. My back is bruised from where the Templ- Nor kneed me.” Gaerwyn waited for the name to register with the Enchanter. As per usual, Fiona’s features remained impassive. The Inquisitor supposed that spending so much time in Orlais, in such a position of power, required the Grand Enchanter to accustom herself to the nuances of the Game.

“Answer me honestly, Fiona,” Gaerwyn continued. “Has Nor created a problem of any sort in the past?”

Fiona shrugged. She set a steaming cup of black tea in front of the Inquisitor before seating herself in a plush reading chair. “Nor is… a good man. That much I can say honestly. A foolish man, but a good one.”

The tea was a mixture Gaerwyn was not familiar with. She caught the tang of citrus tickling the insides of her nose. The bitterness of tea leaves that clung to her tongue reminded her of an Antivan blend her mother was fond of. It was relaxing, she discovered, as the muscles of her arms released their tension.

Fiona shuffled a few books onto the floor beside the chair. She leaned back finally, her hands folded in her lap and her posture rigid. “What I have heard of Nor is that he unsettles some of the mages- mostly apprentices, but also some of the enchanters as well. He has never raised a hand towards one, let me say that now. He has made it clear that he dislikes his duties as a Templar though. On one such occasion, he said his family promised him to the Order as a boy, but he himself was never given the power to make the decision.”

“That’s… concerning,” Gaerwyn said thoughtfully.

“I agree. He has found a friend with one of our mages, Jacques. Through Jacques, I have learned that Nor is resentful that his family chose his life and angry. He’s terrified of mages. While an ideal situation would have us view each other as equals, that is still a lofty goal. All the same, a Templar who is afraid is as dangerous as a cornered beast.”

“Do you think any of your mages are withholding information? That Nor may have overstepped his bounds even more?” Gaerwyn asked.

“These are new times, Inquisitor,” Fiona responded. “The mages do not fear Templars to the point of silence. If one chose to remain quiet, even so, I can assure you I would have five others telling me.”

Gaerwyn nodded. She set the cup of tea down, already missing the feeling of warmth pressed on her lips. “What of Fillian?”

“Fillian? He’s the counter of Nor in near every way. Older, wiser, charming, unafraid and caring,” Fiona listed off. “But… I fear that age and lyrium do not mingle well. He is coming to the point where he should be considered for retirement. A peaceful life of contemplation in a Chantry should not be looked down on. Not for him.”

“Did you know that he was in possession of lyrium brands?” the Inquisitor asked.

From the Grand Enchanter’s breach in her well-groomed façade, Gaerwyn could correctly assume that Fiona had not even the slightest idea.

“What? Fillian? Of all people?”

“I believe so,” Gaerwyn confirmed. “The brands were to have been destroyed, you see. Fillian managed to get away with saving a few.”

“I… oh my.” Fiona closed her eyes and shook her head slowly.

“Do you believe that the brands should be destroyed?” Gaerwyn asked.

The Grand Enchanter was silent. Her forehead scrunched into mottled lines of concentration, as she waded through a mire of words to find those that would be appropriate. “As much as I wish to say that there is necessity in possessing the brands, Inquisitor, I cannot. I wanted to separate from the Chantry during one of the prior Conclaves- with the Rite being one of my guiding reasons. The Rite goes against basic mage freedoms. Honestly, I struggle to find a reason to use it. We… we simply need to teach our apprentices to embrace their magic, not fear it.”

“Thank you, Grand Enchanter,” Gaerwyn said. She stood and bowed to the still sitting woman. The next thing to do was speak with Cullen.

\--

“My dear, do you have a moment?” Vivienne inquired.

“Of course. Is there something you need?” Gaerwyn followed the First Enchanter up the short flight of stairs to the balcony Vivienne had procured for herself.

“I’ve heard some concerning whispers of late,” the woman mused. She sat down on her reclining sofa and gestured for Gaerwyn to take the ornate chair across from her. “That lyrium brands were found in the Templar storerooms. Would you care to enlighten me?”

“Three were found and have been traced back to one Templar in particular,” the Inquisitor responded. She chose her words carefully, knowing that her poorly wrought façade could easily inform Vivienne of any half-truths.

“Ah. What do you intend to do when the brands have been secured?” Vivienne plucked up a sheaf of paper and held it between two finely tapered fingers.

“I don’t know. I—“

“My dear, I know that destroying the brands seems to be the only course of action at this juncture. All the same, I want you to consider that there are some mages who, by necessity, should undergo the Rite.” Vivienne spoke with the poise of a politician and struck like a viper, each word considered with the same precision of a choreographed dance. No room for chaos or fault.

“How can you say such a thing? To me, of all people?” Gaerwyn asked. She could feel the quivering in her hands return.

“Because you, my dear, were not made Tranquil by that necessity,” Vivienne said firmly. “I can assure you that your particular situation was thoroughly examined when the College of Magi learned that you reversed the Rite. I know about the Knight-Commander and his abuse of power. All the same, can you honestly say that a dangerous mage should not be considered for Tranquility? Magic is dangerous, just as fire is dangerous. Anyone who forgets this truth gets burned.”

Gaerwyn bit her lip. Certainly, she respected the proud woman sitting before her. Vivienne had been a comfort when Elliann had passed, sending words of consolation for years afterwards. She had learned much from the First Enchanter during those dialogues. Yet, unfortunately, this would never be a topic where they would be able to find a middle ground. Not when Vivienne had never experienced the horrors of Tranquility, and especially not when Gaerwyn did not wish to delve into those empty years.

“I will consider your words, Lady Vivienne,” Gaerwyn said softly. “Thank you for this talk.”

Vivienne inclined her head in a sort of dismissing gesture. She was all too aware of how Gaerwyn stood to disagree with her politics.

\--

Night was falling outside of Cullen’s tower. The torchlight cast shadows in a flickering pall onto the chamber walls.

Cullen stood examining his shelf for a reference book, only to have his concentration sundered by Gaerwyn entering.

“I forgot to knock,” she said in sudden recognition of her error. “Ah… my mistake.”

“It’s alright,” he chuckled. “Lock the door, would you?”

Gaerwyn did so, the movement so casual that one might assume she had taken a near permanent residence in the tower.

“Fiona wants the brands destroyed,” Gaerwyn stated. “She says that Nor never wanted the Templar life, and fears mages in addition to that. From her experience, it sounds as if that is never a good combination. She had no idea Fillian squirreled the brands away either. While Vivienne believes we should keep them here. She believes that some mages should undergo the Rite. It’s… not a comforting thought.”

“Speaking of the brands…” Cullen lifted up a wrapped parcel from beneath his desk. “I confiscated them.”

“Ah… I’m not very comfortable around those.”

“Forgive me. I didn’t mean to, that is to say… I’m so sorry.” Cullen shoved the parcel out of sight once more.

“It’s alright,” Gaerwyn murmured. Her hand drifted to the seared flesh on her forehead, where the dark scarring was sharply contrasted by her pale skin. The fine details of the sunburst brand hadn’t faded with age, nor did she expect that it would ever occur.

“What would you have done with them?” Cullen asked.

“I…” She hugged her arms to her chest. “I never told you why I was made Tranquil, did I?”

“I didn’t think it my place to ask,” he murmured. She smiled weakly. Turning around so that she couldn’t see his face, Gaerwyn strode over to the ladder leading up to Cullen’s bedchambers.

“My mentor died when I was fourteen. It was… a hard time for all of us. Especially her lover. I mentioned he was a Templar, but I never said that he was the Knight-Commander… well, Captain at the time. He was promoted two years after her death.” She exhaled softly. “He was a good man, but her passing changed him. He was colder. Unkind. I would attempt to speak with him only to have my words fall on deaf ears. He distanced himself and remained that way.

“Three years after I passed my Harrowing, I approached him once more. At that point he was utterly vicious towards us. He wasn’t the man from my childhood. Not the one who held me when a spell backfired and injured me, or snuck me candies when he knew no one else was looking. I… brought up Elliann. I suppose I hadn’t realized that he had managed to keep their affair secret for so long, or how deep the scars reached for him. He hit me. Hard.”

She heard Cullen’s sharp intake of breath. “I thought he would respond to her memory. He did, in a sense. The Knight-Commander threatened me with Tranquility if I ever spoke of Elliann again. To him or anyone else, for that matter.”

“You don’t have to tell me this,” Cullen whispered. He touched her arm, finding relief in how she moved to rest against him.

“I trust you,” she replied. “I want you to know.”

Cullen nodded.

“I crumbled under the threat, obviously. Lydia, the First Enchanter, did not. She spoke freely of Elliann, and often at that. She became my mentor after Elliann passed, and worked closely with the Knight-Commander as per what the Circle required. I, being the idiot I was, thought that Lydia’s free voice on the topic meant I was also extended this same courtesy. I got angry one day, and I yelled at the Knight-Commander before my peers. I believe my exact words were: ‘just because you are trying to kill her memory with your silence doesn’t mean we are. Clearly, we loved her far more than you did. Clearly, she meant nothing to you.’”

She shuddered. “He didn’t perform a Smite. He was so quiet. I thought he was going to kill me on the spot. Instead… he broke down. He begged my forgiveness. He swore to change his ways. Gave me Elliann’s old scarf.” She held up the tail of the red fabric adorning her waist. “But, well, I suppose he changed his mind. Perhaps the humiliation he suffered was too much. He put through the paperwork and Lydia… Lydia tried to stop it. I’m sure you’re aware that rules vary from Circle to Circle, and so do the power dynamics. Up until that point, I thought that the First Enchanter and Knight-Commander were on equal footing. He proved that not to be so, I’m afraid to say. He ignored the First Enchanter’s violent animosity directed toward his decision. I was made Tranquil within the week.”

She finally turned to look at Cullen. “After I met with the Knight-Commander afterwards, he looked at me and said: ‘Children who ignore their elders should be punished with silence.’ He… took everything away from me because I clung to her memory.” She pushed her hair back from her forehead. “If I ever say too little, chances are it’s because of the silence imposed on me then.”

Moving towards him, Gaerwyn placed a hand on his cheek. “So when I make this next decision, please understand I do so because no one deserves to experience that sort of cruelty.”

Cullen looked upon her and nodded. “This is your judgment to make, Inquisitor.”

Under any other circumstances, Gaerwyn would have balked at the usage of such formality in a relatively casual setting. Here though, Cullen’s words were weighted with his respect for his Inquisitor. For the woman she was with him, and for the woman she was beyond the confines of his tower and her quarters.

She swallowed. This wasn't the time for doubt.

“Destroy the brands.”

“At once.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me for all the dialogue. It had to be done. Now I'm going to go sleep for thirty hours.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	23. The Tranquil's Ire (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaerwyn and Cullen share an intimate moment. She passes judgement on Nor and Fillian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second part! Originally, this was supposed to be a single chapter. Unfortunately it became a brief arc in itself when I began writing it because I wanted to address EVERYTHING.
> 
> It was really fun to write though. Not a typical mystery, but still fun.
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
>  
> 
> **NSFW CONTENT**

After having called on Dagna at an ungodly hour for her expertise, the two watched in solemn quiet as the brands were melted down to a pool of pulsing ore and promptly disposed of. The arcanist was her usual chipper self, bringing some levity to an otherwise dark situation. It helped to laugh when the burden of the world seemed to press down on their shoulders.

The two had retired to Cullen’s tower afterwards, thinking not so much about the time as they were about the need for closeness.

In the two weeks that the Inquisition had occupied Skyhold, Gaerwyn had spent a handful of nights in the Commander’s quarters. She had made the request to stow some clothing there in jest, only to be met with Cullen’s abounding agreement. He seemed genuinely pleased to share his living space with her. Thus, she had three changes of everyday attire and two chemises stowed within his storage chest.

“I’m done changing,” she called down to him. “Shall we switch places?”

“I… um, would you be willing to help me out of my armor?” he asked from below.

“Of course. Get up here.” Cullen’s head appeared over the floor, him smiling uncertainly. His cheeks flared with color when he saw that Gaerwyn was wearing a near transparent chemise for sleeping attire. She tugged him the rest of the way into his room, pressing a kiss to his lips before starting on his armor’s buckles.

“Usually I wouldn’t ask,” he said as she began to remove his left vambrace. “But, Maker, I’m exhausted.”

“You can ask me to help you,” she said with a laugh. “I don’t mind.”

Together, they removed his armor piece by piece. Cullen showed her how to properly stow it away for the night, finding her an attentive listener. After tossing his surcoat over the top of his storage chest, he proceeded to remove his tunic –leaving him in nothing but his trousers.

“That scar on your back,” Gaerwyn began. “How did you get it?”

“Would you believe me if I told you it was a Qunari blade?” he replied.

“I would.”

He sat down on the bed beside her, leaning in to press a warm kiss to her lips. “The one on your shoulder?” she murmured against his mouth

“Apprentice lost control of a spell. Got burnt.” He replied, letting one of his hands drift to her upper leg and beneath the gauzy fabric of her chemise. She gasped when he began to play with the sheer fabric of her small clothes.

“Cullen,” she said softly. “I… don’t…”

He stopped. “What’s wrong?”

“I… I’m not very comfortable with my upper half. There are some ugly scars and stretch marks and—,” she said weakly. “I’m sorry. This is so embarrassing. The camp was different. I mean, we never got far enough that my tunic actually came off, and if we had, well, I wouldn’t have been opposed to continuing just… while I was wearing it. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Cullen pulled her close. “I won’t rush you.”

“Maker, I flirt like I’m willing to fall into bed with you at a moment’s notice. Technically—“ She was near tears. “You’ve seen some of them. Just not the ones on my back… the ones I’d rather no one see. I’m sorry.”

Cullen brought her into an embrace. “Are you worried that you’ll disgust me?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Yet you show no revulsion over my scars!” he exclaimed. “I’m certain if we were to compare, I would have the most.”

“That sounds like a challenge!” Gaerwyn laughed weakly at the notion.

“For another day, perhaps,” he chuckled. “What I’m trying to say is that you could never repulse me. When you’re ready for me to see, and only then, will we go further.”

Gaerwyn smiled. “I… think I might have an idea. Could you blow out the candle?”

He searched her eyes for some explanation, yet found none. He plucked up the source of light from the barrel-made-bed stand, and killed the flame. The night outside was barren of a moon, leaving the two in complete darkness.

Gaerwyn shed her chemise with some reservations, leaving her in only her smalls- the breast band having been discarded earlier. She wanted to feel his hands on her body. Wanted him to touch her, caress her. Not just through clothing. She knew for a fact that Cullen wouldn’t reject her simply because of some old scars, nor would he rush her. That wasn’t the sort of man he was. Yet it was her own fear standing in her way.

Her bare skin prickled under the cool of the night air, raising the flesh into a pebbled texture.

“Take my hands,” she murmured. Cullen found her elbows in the darkness and allowed his fingers to drift down to her waiting palms. She sat on her knees with her body directed towards her Commander. Eyes having adjusted enough to the dark, she took in his waiting form. Calm and at ease.

She lifted his hands and placed the palms against her sides. He balked when he took in the sensation of her warm flesh, only to relax when he felt her guide his hands to the plain of her stomach.

“Is this really alright?” he asked her.

“Yes.” She breathed the word as if it were a prayer.

“If you want me to stop, tell me,” he said, his lips ghosting over her bare shoulder.

His hands trailed upwards to her breasts, where he began to circle her nipples with his thumbs. She inhaled softly in hopes of biting back a moan. 

She hadn’t felt fingers feather over her breasts, stomach, and legs in so long- and never with this sort of tenderness. Cullen laid soft kisses over her body, all the while discovering the raised flesh of scars. He paid particular attention to those areas, stroking, caressing, and kissing former hurts.

“What is this one from?” he asked, kissing her shoulder.

“Stab wound,” she replied, her features masked in the dark.

“And this one?” He lowered his lips to the scar near her heart.

“Another stab wound,” Gaerwyn said. She mewled softly when he moved down to kiss her nipple. He took the small bud into his mouth, sucking and teasing. Her core burned in response to his caresses, and what had initially been a stifled whimper turned into a choked moan.

She felt his warm chuckle on her flesh as he pulled back. Using one thumb to circle the little mound, he kissed her neck with slow, unhindered intention. His free hand drifted lazily over her body, tracing the contours and intricacies with a feather-light touch.

“This?” He stroked her back, finding four lines of marred flesh running from her shoulder blade to the opposing hip.

“Talons of a demon. From when I closed a rift in the Hinterlands,” she explained.

“You mentioned this in a letter, yes?” She hummed her affirmative. “Would you lay on your stomach for me?” he asked.

Gaerwyn did so, not entirely certain what the act would entail. A shiver coursed up her spine as he traced his fingers down her back. He could feel every inch of her flesh. Every flaw. The thought was enough to enough to make her cringe.

“Should I stop?” he asked when noting how her shoulders tensed.

“No. It’s alright. Feeling is different than seeing them,” she said.

His warm breath coupled with the sensation of his hands on her body was a heady experience. His warm whispers started at the nape of her neck and spread down to her shoulders like a cloak of steam. Her muscles relaxed under his touch. He ghosted a few kisses over her scars, to which Gaerwyn responded with a hitched breath. It didn’t take much longer until she released a moan into his pillow.

“This one?” he asked, stroking a scar streaking over the small of her back.

“Edge of an armored boot,” she murmured, her voice muffled. “A groups of bandits attacked us on the Storm Coast. One managed to sneak up behind me.” As his lips moved to kiss her shoulder, her body unconsciously arced into his touch.

“This one?” He idly slipped a hand to her ribcage. “It feels like a nasty injury.”

“A rock, actually. As a child, I spent much of my time on the seaside. I played too close to a cliff’s edge and ended up falling this one time. It was a shallow enough of a fall not to kill me, but there were a few boulders to contend with. I ended up fracturing six ribs. My brothers rushed me to a healer in the town. I lived, but got the scar as a price for being careless.” She slowly sat up. “You really don’t care about them? The scars, I mean.”

“Why would I?” he asked.

“I... suppose it was silly of me to think you would.” She placed a hand on Cullen’s shoulder, the feel of corded muscle prominent and enticing.

Cullen brought her into a powerful embrace, their bare chests pressed together. Their breathing seemed to be from one entity. Their heartbeats an uninterrupted harmony. He nipped her lower lip, to which she responded by pulling him into a searing kiss, his moans becoming gasps of ecstasy. All the while he tenderly squeezed her breasts, she sighed her sounds of heady pleasure into his mouth. While neither could see the other in this darkness, the ability to rove their hands over the other’s body proved enough.

Upon reluctantly extricating himself from the embrace, Cullen pulled the covers back. He heard the soft rustling of Gaerwyn slipping her chemise over her head, watching as the shadowy outline of her figure laid down beside him. He slipped an arm around her waist and eased her into a lazy embrace. She responded in kind by placing one hand against his bared chest, and curling the other against her stomach. At least for tonight, they didn’t have to worry. 

The world seemed rather small when the two were alone together.

Tomorrow- tomorrow was when the Inquisitor would pass judgement upon Fillian and Nor. When Gaerwyn took up a heavy mantle of duty. Tomorrow she wouldn’t simply be a woman, or an agent, or a mage. Tomorrow, she would be the Inquisitor- a symbol, a beacon, a sovereign ruler, and the decider of two fates.

\--

Gaerwyn was seated upon the massive throne, her hands gripping the arms of the chair pensively. While meant to appear intimidating to visiting nobility and the judged, the throne had a tendency to make Gaerwyn feel significantly smaller and her duty all the more massive.

A meager gathering of nobility, Chantry officials, and miscellaneous members of the Inquisition stood to observe the proceedings. Gaerwyn caught sight of Vivienne perched atop her balcony, one hand resting upon the rail, a halo of sunlight lining her form in crystalline gold. Her body language spoke of an indifference that few could mimic even in the dullest of conditions.

Varric observed from his usual place, a tankard of ale hovering below his lips and one eyebrow quirked quizzically. She heard the door of the rotunda ease open and watched as Dorian stepped out to partake in observing the proceedings. Here she was- prepared to take on the duty of her position and pass judgement upon two wrongdoers. All the same, she couldn’t say that she wanted this role. Or, to be more precise, the duties this role entailed.

Cullen stood close by, one hand balanced atop the pommel of his sword. His gaze flicked from the Inquisitor to the open doorway, where two prisoners were being led in. Their wrists were bound before them with thick shackles of iron, the chains singing a discordant tune with each step taken.

The older of the two Templars stepped forward. His balding head seemed to refract the various colors of captured light shimmering through the stained glass windows looming over the Great Hall.

“I will be standing as moderator for these two trials,” Cullen informed her, stepping forward. “Fillian Morstein. You stand accused of procuring three lyrium brands meant to be destroyed- directly defying the orders of your superiors. What do you say in your defense?”

Fillian chuckled, his laugh lost in the forest of his greying beard. Upon looking closer, Gaerwyn realized that he was hardly fifty-five. His eyes were a watery blue that seemed incapable of focusing on one point for long. The wrinkles mapping the contours of his face aged him significantly, making him appear at least seventy in the morning light.

“Ser Morstein,” Gaerwyn spoke up. “Why did you remove the brands and attempt to cover up their disappearance?”

Fillain’s stare turned back to the Inquisitor, his eyes promptly focusing on her. His initial jovial persona was abandoned in the wake of something much fiercer, something far more formidable.

“You do not understand,” he seethed. “I was there when Orsino succumbed to blood magic. I saw the atrocities that a mage unbridled can commit. Yet you believe there is no necessity in removing a rabid dog’s fangs if necessary?” He took a step forward, the armor of his boots ringing across the deathly silent hall.

“I fear I understand all too well, Ser Morstein,” Gaerwyn responded.

“Your Templars shouldn’t fear their charges!” he snarled. “Should they be afraid of going to sleep at night, only to awake to their brothers and sisters having been murdered in their beds?”

A panicked whisper swept through the crowd, one which was indeed concerning.

Ser Fillian took another step forward, only to be rebuffed when Cullen moved between the Templar and the Inquisitor.

“I disagree. To begin with: the mages are no longer your charges. They are your allies. As such, you protect them and they protect you. The brands would have done nothing more than foster a distrust within that alliance. Fear creates a slippery foundation. As such, the brands have been destroyed.”

“W-what?!” The Templar stared at her in abject horror. “You cannot be such a fool. Merely because you were made Tranquil, you believe there is no necessity in it?”

“I don’t,” she confirmed.

“That appears to be the allotted time for Ser Morstein to defend himself,” Cullen said, “And then some.”

Gaerwyn stood. “I shall pass judgement momentarily, but permit me this time to make something clear. The Inquisition was founded with many ideals backing its goal. One of those being the opportunity for second chances. That being said: when I recruited the mages to our cause, it was with the understanding that the Inquisition would provide them that chance- to show that we trusted them enough to do so. The Rite of Tranquility does not permit such a kindness. As the mages are aware, and now all of you, the second chance we are offering should not be squandered.”

She settled back onto the throne. “Ser Morstein, according to both mages and soldier alike, you are a good man. After reviewing your records and speaking to several of the mages of Kirkwall, there is little doubt in my mind that this transgression was not done with the intent to harm. I would have a show of people validate that you are an honest man.”

From the crowd, near fifty people raised their hands in a display of agreement. Gaerwyn nodded.

“Though I do not agree with your reasoning, I can sympathize. Without proper guidance, and even with, a mage can prove dangerous. As can a Templar. As can anyone. That being said, I relieve you of your duties as a Templar. For defying direct orders, you will be stripped of your title”

A ripple of horror flooded was palpable in the hall. Gaerwyn raised one hand to silence the crowd and, hopefully, prevent a riot.

“You will be transferred to a Chantry and watched over by the sisters who reside therein. This is the Inquisition’s thanks for your years of service in the Order, and it is also your punishment. You will not be permitted to leave the Chantry unaccompanied by an agent of the Inquisition. If you do so, it will be under pain of true imprisonment. Until otherwise decided that you are not a danger, this will be my decision. Do not ignore this warning, for it will be the only that you receive.”

“After all your talk of second chances…” he growled bitterly.

“Tell me,” Gaerwyn began, lowering her voice so that only Cullen and the old Templar could hear, “Do you truly think it safe for you to be amongst innocents when you cannot differentiate the waking world from that of the dreaming?”

“W-what. How do you- it was Meredith, wasn’t it?! That bat didn’t die. She clawed her way back to life.”

“The Knight-Commander is very much so dead,” the Inquisitor responded. “According to several Templars and mages though, she and many others still haunt you. I pray that you find solace within the Chantry’s sanctuary. Maker only knows that you deserve it.”

“A life… a life of contemplation doesn’t sound so bad,” Ser Fillian murmured. “I suppose you view my coveting those brands as a threat to another’s second chance?” When Gaerwyn nodded in response, Fillian’s shoulders drooped.

Two guards appeared to escort him from the hall, finding that the Templar was meek and subdued when directed away from the gathering.

“Templar Nor Lewthyn, step forward,” Cullen ordered.

While Ser Fillian carried himself with the confidence befitting of his station, Nor stumbled forward with his head bent and shoulders hunched. He glanced up at the Inquisitor briefly and then looked to Cullen. Gaerwyn craned her neck to see that her Commander stared at the man as if fighting near every impulse to strike him.

“Nor Lewthyn, you stand accused of striking the Inquisitor with a Smite- an attack which should only be used in extreme moments of duress. How do you answer these charges?” Cullen spoke with a clipped voice, his words chosen with care.

The Templar was quaking in his boots. “I never knew it was the Inquisitor. I realize that doesn’t excuse what I did. If you had been another mage, there would still be no excusing my actions. I fully acknowledge my mistakes.”

Gaerwyn leaned forward in her seat. “How many years have you been a Templar, Nor?”

“I spent much of my childhood in training, and was fully inducted into the Order four years ago,” he replied.

“Was this the life you wanted?”

“W-what?”

“It isn’t uncommon for Templar recruits to be promised to the Chantry at a young age. My own brother, Dante, was promised for two years before he sought training with the Chevaliers. I digress; did you want to be a Templar?”

“No. No, your worship. I was sent to the Chantry when I was ten years of age. Even then, I had no desire to make this my life.” Nor looked down at his hands, turning his palms upwards.

“I see. As it stands now, I do not believe it wise for you to be among the mages. I’ve heard four different individuals state you express extreme discomfort around our allies.” The Templar nodded his head.

“I’ve always been scared. I saw an apprentice become an abomination during her Harrowing. It was horrifying. Whenever I look at a mage now, I begin to wonder if it’s only a matter of time. Jacques is the only one who doesn’t make me wonder that...” There was a note of fondness in his voice that was apparent to all. Gaerwyn fought the impulse to smile. At least there was one he could look to and love in these times.

Gaerwyn and Cullen shared a glance. He could see she sympathized with the man, whereas she observed how he wanted a harsh punishment in the stead of her gentler one.

“According to the records provided to me by Commander Cullen, and Grand Enchanter Fiona’s word, you have not raised a hand to a mage prior to yesterday’s incident. Is this correct?” the Inquisitor continued.

“Never. I… ran during the uprising. Hid away in a barn until I was found by Inquisition forces. The lyrium withdrawal, Maker, it was awful,” Nor said, his words laced with tears.

With a sigh, Gaerwyn leaned back into the throne’s cushioned seat. “I stand by my words,” she stated. “All the same, I wish to know, Ser Lewthyn, what punishment you think is fitting for your crime? I cannot simply allow you a reprieve.”

Nor went to his knees, the tarnished plating of his armor sounding dully on the stone floor. “I would have myself imprisoned. Strip me of my Templar status and the lyrium tied to the title. Let me suffer my sins alone.”

“I have another plan entirely,” Gaerwyn mused. “I will rescind your status as a Templar, and I will see to it that you are transferred from Skyhold. You will accompany Fillian to the Chantry where he will be settled for retirement. You will spend the duress of a year there in contemplation. Additionally, I intend for you to remain until the lyrium has completely been purged from your body. Be that a year or five, that is my decision. After that time has drawn to a close, you will be presented with two options: return to the Inquisition as an agent. You will work far from Skyhold, but in the name of our cause. Or, return to Skyhold. You will be put to work as my advisors see fit. Assisting in drilling recruits, or perhaps by running errands as a messenger. All the same, the decision will be theirs at that point. They will evaluate if your presence is desired back in Skyhold then."

“You… you’re more or less tying me to another Order?”

“Hardly. As an agent of the Inquisition, we may very well have you acting as a merchant who gathers intelligence whilst selling his wares. Of what you sell, of course, you will receive pay. Enough pay to build a new life, given a few years hard work. The choice is yours. You will be monitored by agents for the remainder of your life. If they deem you a threat to mages, or anyone else for that matter, you will be killed. Promptly. Just know that regardless of where you go, if you approach a mage with intent to harm and it reaches my ears, I will send the power of our forces onto your head. You will rue the day you chose to squander my gift.”

Nor bowed his head. “I shall take this next year to consider my answer. May I… make a request?”

“You’re hardly in the position, but, well, I’m the curious sort. What do you wish?” the Inquisitor asked.

“I… I would request that Jacques du Renyon accompany me. Only if he is willing, of course,” Nor said. “He made being a Templar bearable.”

“Is Jacques present?” In response to her words, a slender young mage appeared from the crowd. He bowed to the Inquisitor, and then turned to look upon Nor. His dark brown eyes seemed to bore into Nor’s stare,

“I am willing to make a compromise and allow you to accompany Nor. Would you be willing to do so?” Gaerwyn inquired.

“No, Your Worship,” Jacques responded, his Orlesian accent trimmed with the vowels of a Free Marcher. “I have duties to attend to here.”

Nor nodded. “I understand.”

“I’ll write to you,” the mage said, his words chilly. “We’ll discuss if we can continue things then.”

Jacques disappeared into the crowd once more, sparing not a glance for his pained lover.

The guards grasped the former Templar under his arms and wrenched him to his feet. He was directed from the Great Hall with little ceremony. Nor’s head was slumped forward and his shoulders quaked with his quiet weeping. Upon his departure, the masses dispersed and went about their business.

"I will make one final decree now, and I wish for my three advisors to be present and assist in the effort," Gaerwyn announced over the cacophony. She saw Josephine rise from nearby, one cup of tea poised in her hand. She entered the shaft of light illuminating the Inquisitor's seat of judgement, her features glowing in the light. Leliana emerged from the shadows of a nearby statue, her gait swaying and imperious. If need be, she would be the one Gaerwyn turned to in order to extinguish the lives of those two men.

"I intend to have a full examination of every Templar present. I realize that this may very well garner distrust, but after the proceedings of the past few days, I want to ensure that the people of Skyhold are safe. Commander, you have the records of every Templar present, correct?"

"Yes, Inquisitor," Cullen replied.

"Excellent. Sister Leliana, I know you can find what others cannot. May I trust you in this endeavor?"

Leliana bowed slightly. "Of course. I doubt this will be much of a strain on resources, but be aware."

"Lady Montilyet," Gaerwyn turned to the ambassador. "You can supplement the resources needed for this, can you not?"

"That I can, Inquisitor," Josephine said. She smiled.

Gaerwyn stood to her feet. "Understand that I do this not to punish you," she informed the Templars present. "I do this so that the inhabitants of Skyhold know they may place their trust in you."

The Templars appeared doubtful, but did not vocalize an opposing opinion to her decree.

"That being said, know I will deal the punishment pertaining to any past crime, and I will be speaking with the mages who were once governed by Templars. In this alliance, trust is absolutely necessary. If you find discomfort in the notion that your pasts are being examined, realize it is for the greater good of the Inquisition's cause. If you oppose even then, I suggest you leave." Her voice reverberated through the hall.

A sudden disquiet settled in the hall- one which Gaerwyn chose to ignore. She saw the Templars look to one another, but no objections were raised. The Inquisitor opted to take this as a good sign, for now. Leliana and Josephine took their leave, stating that their duties required them to remain at their posts. Their vigils would begin shortly, no doubt.

“Maker, that was exhausting,” Gaerwyn groaned, slumping back into the throne. She glanced over at Cullen. “Nor seemed downright terrified to see you again. Is there something I don’t know?”

Cullen scratched the back of his head. “When I questioned him yesterday, I wasn’t exactly pleasant. I may have yelled. A lot.” He approached the throne, casually leaning against the arm of the chair. He spoke in a low enough voice that the general cacophony of the hall would drown out his words. “Why be so merciful on him?”

“Can’t say. I suppose pity.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t seek out revenge. I honestly wouldn’t have been able to blame you!”

“I never said I hadn’t done anything vengeful,” she replied in mock hurt. “I asked Sera to stuff some riled up bees into his pack. We’ll see how that unfolds.”

Cullen bit back the impulse to laugh. “You’re a terrible influence,” he said. “I should pity the poor sod.”

“Why don’t you?”

“He hurt you,” the Commander responded. “Out of fear or not, I can’t promise I wouldn’t have wounded him if I was with you when it happened.”

The Inquisitor rose from the throne, stretching and rolling the stiffness from her limbs. “What’s done is done. I already know that Dorian intends on giving him a proper farewell. Something about a rain of fire? I wasn’t really paying attention. He shouldn’t go on like that while I’m reading.”

She bid him farewell, making her way towards her quarters. Cullen realized how sore his hand was from gripping the hilt of his blade. He had waited with bated breath to see if either of the two Templars would try to harm her. As the Commander of her forces, he would protect her to ensure that the Inquisition remained intact. As the man who was hopelessly enamored with her, he would protect her with every fiber of his being with no reasoning behind his actions. There was no need for logic.

\--

She had hoped to escape the call of obligation for the evening, having slipped into the gardens to read until the sun set behind the Frostbacks. Gaerwyn opted to wear her Inquisition uniform, praying that if any soul spotted her, said individual would simply assume she was a soldier off duty.

For the most part, her plan was a success. Yet she did not take into consideration that a certain Commander might come searching for her.

Cullen wordlessly sat down on the bench, placing a bottle of wine betwixt their two bodies.

“I heard that Lady Vivienne was sharp with you earlier,” he said.

“That makes it sound as if she’s lecturing a child. She probably views me as such,” Gaerwyn said with a sigh. She closed her book with a terse flourish. “She didn’t agree with Fillian’s trial, and thought it was idiotic that I ordered the remaining brands be destroyed.”

Cullen broke the seal on the wine bottle, passing it over to the mage wordlessly. He watched in mild amusement as she upturned it by the neck and drank down a quarter of the fine liquor.

“This tastes expensive,” she said, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth. She rolled the bottle over to examine the year. “I’m sorry. That was wasteful.”

“I had a feeling you’d need it,” Cullen replied, holding his hand out expectantly. He downed a mouthful of the sweet wine, savoring the taste of honey and apple blossoms. He returned it to the Inquisitor, who took the time to inhale the sweet aroma wafting off of the drink. 

“You were right,” she replied, raising the bottle to the sky. “Vivienne said my actions were careless. She sees necessity in the Rite of Tranquility, but she also pities me. I hate that. She’s protective and kind, but… condescending. Especially when you do something she disagrees with.” Gaerwyn smirked. “Such is life.”

“You’re leaving for Crestwood soon, yes?” Cullen inquired.

“Tomorrow morning. To meet with Hawke’s Warden friend,” she mused. “From the sound of it, we’ll take a detour through the Fallow Mire as well.”

Cullen took a swig from the wine bottle. “I don’t suppose it would be wise for the Inquisitor and Commander to be caught drunk in the gardens, now would it?” she groused.

“I’d rather have the Inquisitor in bed with me tonight.”

“Did you… did you just manage to flirt?” Gaerwyn asked in astonishment. She pulled herself up to look at Cullen incredulously.

“Yes, I mean, that is- Maker.” He cushioned his head with his hands. “I didn’t mean it quite like that. And what do you mean by managed? I’ve flirted before!”

Gaerwyn laughed. “It’s cool out here. Feels nice after the wine makes it to my head.”

“So you admit you’re drunk?”

“By no means!” Cullen managed to remove the bottle from her vice-like grip all the same. He had to admit that the wine was much more potent than he had expected. His eyes began to droop with an alcohol-induced exhaustion, one that made the garden bench seem like a perfectly feasible substitute to an actual bed.

“Here.” Gaerwyn patted her leg. “Rest your head for a spell.”

With little need for encouragement, the Commander settled onto his side. He had abandoned his armor earlier that evening, leaving him in plain attire.

Curling an arm around the undersides of Gaerwyn’s knees, Cullen placed his head in her small lap. It was near impossible to remain conscious when she lazily carded her fingers through his hair and stroked the curvature of his jaw. On all counts, the Commander failed to stay awake. He drifted off while his Inquisitor stood vigil in the night, humming an off-key tune absently to herself.


	24. The Lion, The Hawk, The Tranquil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaerwyn meets Claudia Hawke. Cullen fears that her meeting Hawke will cause her to think otherwise of him, since Hawke met Cullen during one of the darkest times in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dragon Age 2 Spoilers within.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!

The Fallow Mire was not a pleasant place. As if the name were not warning enough, the corpses that greeted Gaerwyn’s traveling party certainly informed them of what was lying in wait. To make matters worse, pleasantry was all but abandoned in the swamps for a more irritable persona inhabited by all present.

Dorian was quiet. Too quiet. When he wasn’t dwelling in a state of sulking silence, he was arguing with Blackwall at high volumes. It had become too common of an occurrence that their spats alone would raise the dead. While Sera just enjoyed tromping through the swamps solely so that she could acquire target practice. Her reckless behavior had caused one withered corpse to rise up and wrap its arms around Gaerwyn’s legs at one point. The Inquisitor’s near-drowning had caused the Red Jenny to cease for a time before picking up once more.

“Life ain’t worth livin’ without a little risk, yeah?” Sera had said.

Camping was next to insufferable. The ground upon which they lay was sodden with mud, and the scent of wet grass and damp soil was overwhelming. Maintaining a fire was next to impossible when the storms were at their worst, and, when not, might attract the unwanted attention of the dead. Food was nearly raw, but not so raw to be inedible. Meaning there was little to complain about if the party went to bed with their fill. Bogfisher was near impossible to prepare, and often left Gaerwyn feeling ill after a meal.

Her one solace had come in the form of letters. Two, thus far. Both from Cullen. One had arrived when the party had settled in for the night in an inn nestled in the foothills of the Frostbacks, and another had been presented to her when stopping to replenish supplies in Redcliffe. The first was a simple letter that detailed the current events occurring about Skyhold, ended simply by him stating he missed her. The second was similar to the first in that he described the discussions carried on at the war table and around the Keep, but also relayed that Sera had attached a letter to Gaerwyn’s previous missive. The first half of her message was teasingly jabbing Cullen about his and Gaerwyn’s romantic attachment, and the second portion was spent requesting better food for the forces stationed outside of Skyhold. Though instead of “stationed,” Sera opted to say “convicted.”

Cullen stated that the letter was decorated with rather lewd images of Cullen and Gaerwyn, some of the two separate, most of them together and in extremely compromising positions. One short paragraph read as: “I’m not entirely certain that using the war table in such a manner would be wise. Too many strategic points mapped out to risk toppling. Also, how would one even accomplish that on top of a galloping horse? I fear that injury would be inevitable.”

“We took a stupid detour around that bunny-shaped lake jus’ to end up here? Lake Callehand, innit?” Sera growled, throwing herself onto a massive pile of –stolen- furs.

Gaerwyn looked up from her lap desk. “Lake Calenhad. It was necessary, unfortunately. The Avvar have our soldiers.”

“Hey, look at you bein’ a people person!” Sera looked up with a massive grin plastered on her face. “Almost makes up for the moony eyes ya been makin’. Ya miss your Cully-Wully? Bet he misses lookin’ up at you. Positions, an’ all.”

“I do miss him,” Gaerwyn replied. She instinctively clutched her stomach. “Maker… we need to request a delivery of rations. I can’t manage more Bogfisher.”

“Took ya long enough!” Sera smirked. “I’m goin’ to sleep. Don’t wake me til my watch.”

The Inquisitor nodded. The Red Jenny tossed over on her side and curled into a ball.

Gaerwyn plucked up her quill once more, dipping the freshly cut tip into her half-full inkwell.

_Cullen:_

_The Fallow Mire is… fallow. And a Mire. Do we honestly need a foothold here? It reeks!_

_Not to mention, even for our soldiers, it isn’t a safe place. The Plague ran through this land and left nothing but death behind. Also: the Bogfishers are extremely rude. I had one knock over my tent last night looking for the shortbread I had in my pack… the ones you made me. Not to worry though, the Bogfisher learned what it meant to trifle with this Inquisitor._

_Honestly, this place is saddening in near every respect. I don’t believe I’ll endeavor to revisit this swampland any time recent to my departure._

_I apologize. This isn’t meant to be a letter complaining of everything wrong. We’ve found the Avvar’s trail, and we’re following it to their stronghold. We expect to be there no later than tomorrow afternoon. Maker, it’s so hard to discern what time it is here._

_The moon is beautiful, all the same. I’ve always been so mystified by the way one can look to the night sky and forget their troubles for the time being. Did I ever tell you about the upper chambers in the Ostwick Circle? It was one massive classroom devoted to studying astronomy, so the roof was actually a large circular window. Everything was so clear and beautiful. I can recall attending near every lecture and then staying after. There were a few nights where I fell asleep beneath that ceiling of stars (Only to be caught by a senior enchanter or Templar doing rounds.) I never got into that much trouble. Perhaps more chores assigned, but nothing all that impressive._

_You mentioned you grew up in Honnleath, yes? What was the sky like there? Is it strange to think we all live beneath one sky, but it looks so different depending on where we are? I’m prattling._

_I miss you. I hope all is well. How are you?_

_Yours.  
-Gaerwyn_

\--

The letter delivered to Cullen smelled faintly of rainwater. He recognized the Inquisitor’s handwriting and was prompt to stuff it into one of his free pockets. The Commander had begun tending to some of the repair efforts around Skyhold, and was often without any time left for himself. Save for eating, sleeping, and a few hours devoted to slogging through reports, Cullen spent his time overseeing renovations and drilling the recruits.

A migraine hammered against his temples, a pain that threatened to knock him off his feet in a vicious display of aggression. Even if he wished to, Cullen would be incapable of reading, and in extension, answering the missive. A pang of guilt swept through him like an arrow planted in his gut. He longed to feel Gaerwyn’s comforting touch on his arms, which would inevitably guide him to a place void of chaos during his bouts of withdrawal.

He inevitably had to take leave of his recruits a half hour prior to dinner being served, placing the responsibility of their training into the hands of his waiting lieutenant. 

The door to his tower slammed shut with all the deafening authority of a battering ram. He leaned into its solid strength in an effort to regain his bearings. His fingers drifted to the letter in his pocket. If not for the Inquisition requiring his unwavering presence, Cullen would have spent an excessive time writing to Gaerwyn.

His thoughts still drifted to how her body felt against his. That night before she had passed judgment upon Nor and Fillian, where he had kissed each scar running over her skin with an attentive thoroughness. He had replayed that time of sheer bliss repeatedly in his mind, drawing out each languid touch and kiss with rapt attention. He found, even against his better judgement, the events of that night would manifest at a moment’s notice. Cullen still recalled how her skin felt under his roaming hands, her hot breath against his chest.

The Commander exhaled sharply. He strode over to his desk, grasping up the tankard of lukewarm water he had left out the night previous. He drank it down in three gulps, slamming the empty cup onto the scuffed surface of his workspace.

At least within the tower, the light wasn’t so glaring. Cullen extracted the letter from his pocket, praying that the typical nausea associated with reading in the midst of withdrawal wouldn’t overtake him.

Her words were a comfort.

_I miss you._

When had those three words ever struck so deep a chord than when she wrote them? Perhaps he burdened the phrase with more weight than the woman had intended, but he hoped beyond hope that he wasn’t deceiving himself.

Cullen shoved aside the scrolls littering his chair so that he could sit down and write a response.

_Gaerwyn:_

_I do not think you need worry about complaining over letter to me. I’ve heard enough stories of the Fallow Mire to turn my stomach. All the same, a small foothold should not be overlooked._

_Let it never be said that our Inquisitor permits the Bogfishers free reign of the camp. I knew you were serious about your desserts, but not to the point where you would kill a creature over trying to steal your shortbread! Honestly, I’m not that exceptional of a baker. The recipe wasn’t even mine, but, well… my sister was happy to receive a letter from me. All the same, I’m glad you have taken such a shine to what I do manage to make._

_Don’t worry about rambling, not with me. When you do write like that, it honestly makes it feel as if you’re closer. As if I’m reading a note you scribbled and left on my desk. If it weren’t for the fact that I recognized your handwriting, my officers would have received a lecture for the lurid missives left for me._

_Honnleath was far from being a bustling city. It had personality, I can assure you of that, but the nights were always clear. I can recall catching fireflies with my siblings in the fields on some evenings, just as dusk had begun to set in. There was one night where my sister dragged myself and our other siblings to a field at the most ridiculous hour. She ordered us to lay down and wait. Sure enough, we saw our first star shower. I can vaguely remember how I had intended to charter an expedition to seek out a star, for what ends, I don’t think I ever decided. Unfortunately, as a child of nine years, I wasn’t to be taken seriously._

_Granted, we caught an earful after having fallen asleep in the field and not returning home until mid-morning the following day, the memory has stayed with me._

_I miss you as well. A day does not go by where I am not unnerved by your absence. It’s an odd feeling walking into a war council and not seeing you there, or going to the library only to not find you hiding behind a massive tower of books._

_The renovations are proceeding smoothly, and will, no doubt, be finished on schedule._

_I do hope this letter finds you safe and in one piece. Stay safe. Try not to upset too many Bogfishers._

_Yours,_  
_-Cullen_

\--

Gaerwyn folded the letter in half and then placed it inside the cover of her journal. While travelling, she had the tendency to place all missives within the book as safe keeping. Otherwise, reports would go forgotten and unanswered. She had picked up the habit after Cullen had written to her whilst she was in the Hinterlands.

She fished through her pack until touching upon the smooth, rounded surface of the skyball. She withdrew the object and turned it over in her hands. During her time in the Fallow Mire, Gaerwyn would take to looking over the stone’s depicted starry night before drifting off into sleep. There had been plenty of mornings where she awoke to it still clutched to her chest, the sphere warmed by her touch.

Now in Crestwood, where the sky was persistently clouded, Gaerwyn held the skyball a little more dearly. 

“So, we have to find Hawke and seal a rift in the middle of a lake?” Dorian asked, sitting down beside Gaerwyn on the slime-slicked rock overlooking the churning waters. He took a brief second to wipe away at the spot, sighing upon realizing his efforts were to no avail. He settled a bit more closely to the edge of the rock in hopes of not having the scummy lake residue smeared over his backside. In the distance, a bright green halo sat upon the waves, wisps of magic trailing off of the light like smoke.

“When you put it that way, the latter of the two sounds next to impossible,” Gaerwyn replied with a grin.

“Well, I’ve read tales that would make this one pale by comparison,” the Tevinter mused. “Have you sent a letter back to Skyhold yet? We’d best let Josephine and Cullen know that we’ve moved on from the Mire. Not a moment too soon, I’d say.”

“Once we settle in for the evening,” she said. “The mayor back in the village, did something seem off to you about him?”

“Quite a bit did, actually,” Dorian said. “He was almost hesitant to tell us how to get to Old Crestwood, wasn’t he?”

Gaerwyn nodded. “Not unpleasant. Perhaps distracted?”

“Hard to say. All the same, let’s not linger here. The water is making me feel ill. I think I’ve caught a spot of pneumonia as well. Lovely.” Dorian stood to his feet and offered a hand to the Inquisitor. She took it with a smile.

“Now, I did find something that I believe you’ll be interested in,” he proceeded. “It’s Tevinter, of course. Most fascinating relics are. The ones that don’t smell of dog, I mean. It’s ancient! Come look!”

Gaerwyn followed after the man. Both mages having come from backgrounds that valued knowledge and the pursuit of it, had become fast friends. A day felt wasted, for Gaerwyn, if she did not manage to seek out the opportunity to speak with Dorian about one topic or another. Of course, the evenings where the two became smashed over wine were equally as enjoyable.

The Inquisitor had seen only sketches of Astrariums in her past studies. She had read that their purpose was akin to looking upon and connecting constellations. There was a time during the Divine Age where Andrastian cultists sought to destroy these relics for varied reasons- none of which, in Gaerwyn’s biased opinion, were justified. To find one that had escaped the ire of previous ages was near unheard of.

Needless to say, Gaerwyn was absolutely enraptured by the discovery and spent the next half hour circling and taking notes on the artifact.

_Cullen,_

_Maker’s breath, today has been eventful!_

_We arrived in Crestwood just before dawn and made our way to the village in hopes of replenishing our supplies. We received a pittance, which is understandable when considering the bandits running rampant (a few of which we have already dealt with). What was truly interesting about the ordeal presented by the village was the mayor, in actuality. The man was shifty, to say the least._

_After which we met with Hawke and her Warden contact- who has requested that I leave him nameless for the time being. I can’t say much more of the man beyond this. Apparently, near every Grey Warden is experiencing the Calling right now. Which is uncommon, seeing as some are still fresh recruits and have yet to be consumed by the Taint. He has a lead which he would wish to discuss further at Skyhold. Until then, I will leave it at that. Leliana assures me that her birds are the swiftest in Thedas, but she would also caution me to refrain from providing too much information._

_Much of what I’m writing here is going to be in a later report, but I just want to tell you. We managed to deal with the rift in Lake Calenhad by travelling through an old tunnel system that we discovered in Old Crestwood- the village that had been flooded during the Blight. I fear I found the cause of this, and it wasn’t Darkspawn. Maker, I think I would be able to stomach the tragedy if they had been the cause._

_At this point in time, the captives of the Avvar should be returning to Skyhold with their escorts. Seeing as they would likely be exhausted and hardly in fighting condition, I charged a small outfit of soldiers to see them safely restored to Skyhold. Along with them, a wise man of the Avvar will also be arriving. He has offered his services as an agent, and I can see him being of great aid in the future._

_Beyond the issue of a dragon, Crestwood provides no further reason for my travel party to remain. I expect we will be back within a fortnight._

_When I return, I must tell you about the Astrariums we found! To think some survived the Divine Age is next to unheard of. To think three would be in the same region is doubly so. I charted three constellations with Dorian while here- ones that may predate the Imperium at that._

_It’s odd not awakening to the sounds of you drilling recruits in the courtyard. Honestly, life feels too quiet away from Skyhold. I never thought I could miss a place as much as I do the old fortress._

_The sky is a bit clearer now that the rift has been dealt with. Crestwood isn’t quite the swampland it was when we first arrived._

_Yours,_  
_-Gaerwyn_

\--

Gaerwyn’s letter arrived a day later than the returning soldiers. Cullen stood in a mass of recruits who expressed the sincerest relief to be behind allied lines once more, now greeting loved ones and fellow comrades at arms. People who had not seen the soldiers in over three weeks. The scout who delivered the Inquisitor’s letter just barely managed to not be barreled over by an overjoyed lover running into the arms of a bedraggled archer. It was a touching sight, Cullen found himself musing.

In the wake of the losses at Haven, seeing these soldiers emerge alive was a sight that seemed next to surreal. Gaerwyn was still reeling over the loss of Adan, though she hid it well. There had been a few evenings where Cullen took to strolling the gardens to clear his head, only to drift towards the candle-washed glow of the sanctuary nearby and find Gaerwyn in prayer. She never spurned his presence, but made it clear that mourning was, for her, a personal affair. Something, Cullen assumed, that was a result of the loss of her mentor.

Her letter was unusually informative, hardly drifting into the sort of rambling that Cullen oft found so endearing. The bit about the dragon was particularly concerning, though he had to push his personal opinions to the wayside for the time being. He was all too aware she was a capable woman- though that did little to allay his growing fear.

“Hawke sent back word,” Varric announced. He leaned against the stone wall of the courtyard with one letter clenched in his fist. “She’s returning to Skyhold with the Inquisitor. Two days tops, I’d gamble.”

“Ah, that’s… good to hear,” Cullen said.

“Worried about something?”

“Hawke didn’t exactly see me at my best,” the Commander mumbled. “I expect that it won’t be a very fond exchange, if there is to be one.”

“Ya know, Hawke thought you were alright,” Varric said. “I mean, you can’t exactly overlook the fact she’s a mage. The magic she calls on makes her hair stand on end!” The dwarf paused, a smirk forming on his lips. “So why did you cover for her? I’m pretty sure you could have turned her in at least five times.”

Cullen sat down on the wooden bench situated near the wall. “She saved my life. Countless times. Even after what I said about mages, at that. I hold her responsible for changing my views on mages. Maker, I’m sure the blow she took for me in Kirkwall scarred.”

“Blondie would tell you in detail,” Varric said with a scoff. “She’s seen enough people who are angry at magic to figure when they’re scared shitless. Either because of what they’ve been taught or what they’ve witnessed. You obviously fell into the latter.”

“Do you think,” Cullen began, “If I told Gaerwyn about Kirkwall that… she would still accept me?”

“Curly, you weren’t in a good place in your life. We all knew it. I can’t say what she’ll do,” Varric said with a shrug. “For what it’s worth, I think you came out of that shit a pretty good person.”

“I… thank you.”

Varric patted Cullen roughly on the shoulder. He left without ceremony, mumbling something about needing to finish a chapter for his current serial.

\--

Claudia Hawke was an interesting woman. She had a tendency to make offhand jokes in the heat of battle and sing while bathing- even when that bath involved the company of others. Her hair stood on end, and shaking her hand also entailed receiving a small shock of electricity up the arm. It was hardly intentional, and the quality often left her mortified.

She enjoyed loud conversations and laughing, leading her to become a well-needed presence after their brief dalliance in the Fallow Mire.

“I feel like my name is one pun!” she said laughingly. The pass leading to Skyhold was in the distance, the guards posted before its mouth milled about like ants. “Think about it. Claw? Hawke? Honestly, I think my father had full say in what I was named.”

Gaerwyn grinned despite herself. Even when fully rested, the fatigue that had seeped into her bones made navigating her horse no simple task. Her companions, who trailed behind the two at a distance, were experiencing similar symptoms of exhaustion. Blackwall and Dorian rode on either side of Sera to keep her propped up on her steed, the Red Jenny having begun to doze off in her saddle.

“So, a little birdie told me that you and the Commander are rather… attached to one another,” Hawke said, waggling her eyebrows suggestively.

“It’s a rather poorly kept secret,” Gaerwyn confirmed. “I don’t think Varric qualifies as a bird at that.”

“I suppose that’s true enough,” Hawke replied. “Do you know much about his time in Kirkwall?”

“Only what he’s been willing to share. I’d rather not press him for information he does not wish to share.” Gaerwyn shifted in her saddle

“That’s… considerate of you. Kirkwall wasn’t exactly the best of places. Still, it was home.” She sighed wistfully.

“Did you leave anyone behind?” Gaerwyn asked.

“No. After the incident with the Chantry and Meredith, we had to flee. Didn’t want to start an Exalted March, now did we?” Hawke patted down a lock of hair that had opted to stand on edge but to no avail.

“What about Anders?”

“Ah,” Hawke began with a laugh. “He and I stayed together for as long as we could manage. Unfortunately, the chaos of the Mage-Templar conflict forced us to separate… it was for the best. I…” She went silent. “I miss him. I may not have always agreed with his views but, Maker, I would give anything to see him again.”

Gaerwyn reached over and placed a comforting hand on the Champion’s shoulder. She blinked against the bright sheen of tears, only to indiscreetly bring a hand up to her eyes.

“Cullen’s lucky to have you,” Hawke said with a weak chuckle. “He was one of the few good Templars in Kirkwall. Even when he was an arse.”

“Oh?”

“I suppose I’m still stinging over one comment he made,” she said. Hawke promptly averted her gaze as if to indicate she no longer wanted to pursue this topic of conversation.

“You can’t leave it at that, Claudia! What did he say?” Gaerwyn leaned forward to stroke the neck of her horse. Their small procession had arrived at the mountain pass. The eerie groan of the wind rushing through the nooks and crenature of rock formations was making the steed skittish.

“You mustn’t hate him. He’s a different man than he was then,” Hawke forewarned. “Oh… how was it said again? ‘Mages cannot be treated like people. They are not like you and me. They are weapons. They have the power to light a city on fire in a fit of pique.’”

When noting the horrified stare that crossed Gaerwyn’s features, Hawke promptly supplemented her statement with the amendment: “But do you know what he said to Meredith when he turned on her? When asked if he would take responsibility for the mages that would supposedly turn on innocents and Templars alike, he said yes. He said he believed that was what being a Templar was about. That serving as the Order did not simply mean protecting civilians from mages, but also protecting mages from those who would harm them.”

The coiling apprehension in the Inquisitor’s stomach began to loosen somewhat. She nodded slowly. “That is comforting.”

Hawke exhaled loudly. “Come now! I think we all need a bath and a hot meal.”

The remainder of the journey was carried on with Hawke speaking animatedly about any and every topic- save for any subject relating to Anders or the Mage Rebellion.

\--

Gaerwyn was greeted by a handful of guards upon reaching Skyhold’s gates. She managed to guide her steed past the masses without causing injury to herself or any individual who remained grounded.

Dennet assisted the Inquisitor in removing the horse’s saddle when he noticed how she staggered about the stables, still sore from riding. The horsemaster was kind enough to take over tending to the mount, stating that the creature only needed food and rest at that point. “Just,” he added pointedly, “like a certain Inquisitor who seems to enjoy loitering about.”

“Varric!” Claudia’s voice carried from Herald’s Rest to the barn. “Does this tavern have ale like the piss back in Kirkwall? I’m feeling nostalgic!”

“She certainly hasn’t changed,” a familiar voice mused. Gaerwyn turned to see Cullen standing nearby. He approached the mage, posture rigid and formal. Even when attempting to maintain a façade of propriety, that wicked smile still managed to creep past his well-trained efforts.

The Commander performed a brief, visual inspection of the Inquisitor’s outward appearance. The fact that her armor was singed and stained with blood did not escape him. Nor did the missing glove or massive tear down one trouser leg evade his attention.

“You fought a dragon?” he asked, trying to mask his incredulity.

“I fought a dragon,” she replied, the pride in her voice evident. “It was glorious.”

“I can imagine. I don’t know whether to be infuriated or mystified,” he said.

“I wouldn’t rob you of your options.”

Cullen shook his head in mild amusement. “I missed you.”

“And I you.”

“Were you injured?”

“A few cuts and bruises. I was also singed by dragon’s breath. Apparently I smell like lightning now.” Gaerwyn’s coat had originally been a light grey. Now it was a deep hue of ash black around the edges. Cullen recognized the uneven trim of her hair then. Most likely the Inquisitor had employed Sera to assist in sheering off the burnt ends so that she was at least somewhat presentable.

“Still think I’m beautiful?” she asked playfully.

“Of course. Nothing could change that. After all, the singed just-emerged-from-a-forest-fire is in season, according to Leliana. Are your eyebrows still there?” He leaned forward in a show of exaggeration.

“Yes!” Gaerwyn broke into a fit of laughter. She couldn’t deny the warmth pooling in her chest or the want to be lost in his embrace. Even when the lass hadn’t meant to disconcert with her statement, what Hawke had said remained rooted in her mind. 

“I’m exhausted,” she continued.

The Commander- her Commander- was understanding. As he always was. With practiced subtlety, Cullen took her hand in his in a show of unspoken affection.

“I won’t keep you then,” he murmured. “If you need me, you know where to find me.”

The mage nodded.

“I’m glad you’re back,” he continued. “Maker, how I missed you.” In a show of abandoning the scruples attached to his station, Cullen leaned forward and brushed his lips over her cheek. She moved into his touch and pressed a chaste kiss to his jaw.

“I’m happy to be home,” she replied. “The road was oddly lacking in strapping Commanders. You’re quite the commodity.”

Cullen’s soft laughter buoyed up her spirits to some degree and followed her out of the courtyard. He had never treated her as anything but a person. He respected her title and acknowledged that she was a mage, yet had not displayed any form of discomfort over either qualities. Gaerwyn fully trusted Hawke’s word when it came to what Cullen had said and who he had become. She had witnessed a kindness in the man that confirmed he had, indeed, abandoned the bitterness Claudia described him as once possessing.

To him, Gaerwyn was just as a much a person as any other member of the Inquisition. They were equals.

\--

“Ah, Commander!” Hawke half purred, half slurred. “Glad to see you’re joining us. Just us Kirkwall-ers.”

Varric gestured for Cullen to take the seat next to him. He proceeded to shuffle the Diamondback deck set on the table, and place a card before the Commander.

“This ale is watered down!” Hawke declared. “I’m not half as smashed as I’d be back in Hanged Man.”

“You’re still shitfaced, Hawke,” Varric said without looking up from his hand.

Hawke mumbled an incoherent statement before slamming down what appeared to be her third tankard of alcohol.

“Hawke, do you know why Gaerwyn was acting off earlier? She usually recounts her travels to me. Especially when it involves something akin to a dragon,” Cullen said. He lifted his card to discover that he had drawn the lowest of the three. Varric, unsurprisingly, had drawn the highest. As the rules dictated, he would act as dealer.

“Was she? She seemed perfectly find on the ride back… oh.” Claudia’s eyes widened with realization. “I may have made a mistake.”

“What happened?” Cullen managed to match Varric’s wage for the round- a queen against the dwarf’s king.

“Do you… remember what you said about mages to me that one time, those many, many years ago?” Hawke asked slowly, each word picked with care.

Varric released an audible groan of disappointment. He pressed his hands against his forehead and sighed.

“I didn’t want to say anything!” Hawke insisted. 

“You bait people with how you talk, Hawke!” Varric growled. “Oh, there’s this old family recipe for fermenting mead, but I can’t tell. That’s what you do!”

Cullen stared down at his hands. “Maker, that was nine years ago. It took me four years in the Kirkwall Circle to realize how wrong I was. I haven’t felt that way, or thought like that, in so long.”

“Curly, we don’t hold that against you,” Varric began. “It was a mess in Kirkwall. You knew it. We knew it.”

“I’ve been trying to atone for those days. I erred in not questioning Meredith’s decisions. Towards the end, both Templars and Mages feared her. Not that it mattered. Not when so much damage had been done.”

“Do you honestly think you could have made a difference if you thought otherwise, Curly?” Varric asked. “Chances were that if you questioned Meredith, you wouldn’t have risen in the ranks. You probably would have been shipped off to another Circle. If you had caught her at her worst, chances are you would have been stripped of your title and expelled from the Order.”

“Varric…”

“Yeah, you were a massive arse, make no mistake. But if you hadn’t made it to the position of Knight-Captain, where would you have been when Kirkwall was in shambles? Aveline was all too aware of how you assisted in restoring some semblance of order to the city. You acted as Knight-Commander for two years! I might add that my ears in the Circle thought you were an outstanding leader. Not just the Loyalist mages- the other fraternities too.” Varric placed a hand on the Commander’s shoulder.

Hawke spoke up then. “There’s no doubt you’re a good person. Your greatest sin was blind loyalty.”

Cullen smirked. “There’s only so much I could have done, seeing as Meredith kept everything from me. I was being fed second-hand information from horrified Templars and Mages alike. I couldn’t exactly run in wielding accusations that bordered on treachery against the Knight-Commander, could I? I couldn’t act without her authorization either!”

“I misspoke,” the mage muttered. “Forgive me, Cullen. I shouldn’t have said that to Gaerwyn.”

The Commander sighed. “What’s done is done. I’ll speak with her on the morrow. If you’ll excuse me.”

He rose from his seat and exited the tavern without another word. Varric turned to Claudia.

“You messed up real bad there, Hawke,” he said, reshuffling the deck.

The woman nodded. “I tried to patch it up. I told her what he said to Meredith before he turned on her. I thought it made a difference.”

“Well, honesty in everything is important, I guess.” Varric sniffed back a scoff. “I have a feeling this stems from Anders going and—“

“I’m sorry, Varric!” Hawke said, her voice taking on a forceful edge. “It hurts that he lied to me. I don’t know what I would have done if he had been honest. But no. I wasn’t trying to sabotage their relationship. After all Cullen has been through, Maker only knows he deserves a little happiness.”

Varric grunted. “Right. Let’s just get a few more drinks.”

“That I’ll agree to.”

The Champion and the writer played a relatively quiet game of Diamondback. As the two had agreed, they had five more mugs of ale individually. By the time the two had managed to stagger out of the tavern, it was well past midnight. 

“Have you heard any word of him, Varric?” Hawke asked quietly.

“Hawke…” The dwarf began quietly.

“Anything?”

“I heard he was helping a group of mages for a while there. He had to leave when tensions reached a breaking point. After that, I don’t know. You’ve been looking for him, haven’t you?”

Hawke leaned against the rough stone wall of the tavern. She turned her gaze up to the starry night sky, her bright hazel eyes shining.

“I was. Then Stroud said he needed help. I need to see him again. Just to let him know that I love him.” She clenched a fist over her shoulder, the fabric of her tunic bunching in her hands.

“You have plenty of time, Hawke.”

“I certainly hope so.”

The two returned to their respective quarters then to claim some sleep prior to dawn.

\--

“Gaerwyn,” Cullen knocked thrice upon her chamber door. No response. He knocked again to be met with silence. He couldn’t wait until morning. He wanted to fix whatever had been damaged then.

The door eased open of its own accord, and Cullen hesitantly ascended the stairs to find Gaerwyn sprawled out on her bed… dead asleep. She was partially undressed, with her coat wantonly tossed over the couch. One boot stood guard beside the stairway while the other remained partially laced to her foot. Her tunic was open to reveal the protective padding that she wore to deflect the blows of blades and arrows.

Cullen couldn’t help but laugh. He approached the bedside, leaning over to remove her boot and place it next to its mate. She smelled of sweat and dirt with an underlying tang of rosemary. He wiped a smudge of dirt from her cheek to find a small bruise forming beneath. He guessed the bruise had formed due to a harmless projectile.

He peeled the feather down-stuffed covers back from the bed while lifting Gaerwyn up to lay her onto the embroidered silk mattress. The Lady Ambassador had certainly seen to the Inquisitor’s needs. Perhaps even overdone it.

After tucking the blankets firmly around his Inquisitor, Cullen departed. He could speak with her during waking hours. Perhaps a night’s rest would calm his mind prior to him tackling the topic with her.

\--

_Cullen was in the Gallows courtyard. He looked about to see the hollow-faced stares of Templars and mages alike. All who were brutally murdered during the Kirkwall Rebellion._

_Meredith stood before him, her eyes a burning red. Massive spikes of red Lyrium were sprouting from her shoulders and back in a chaotic array. In one hand she carried a brand of Tranquility, the head still hot from the fire._

_“Weakness, Knight-Captain, is unacceptable,” she said, her voice brooking no argument. She smiled a serpentine grin._

_He blinked and looked to the ground in front of him. Gaerwyn lay there, staring blankly up at the pitch black sky. Her eyes, usually animated and bright, had dulled to a pale, empty green. She didn’t smile. Didn’t blink._

_His knees gave out. He reached for the mage, only to find her unresponsive. The only sound which emanated from her was a weak intake of breath. The brand was so fresh that smoke seemed to hang off the flesh. The scarred skin itself was a bright, burning red that was starkly contrasted by her pale complexion._

_“Gaerwyn,” he choked her name. “Gaerwyn.”_

Tears. Maker. When was the last time he had wept in earnest?

_She couldn’t be made Tranquil. No. He didn’t know how to save her. He couldn’t protect her. Couldn’t hide a small note or parcel of food in her pack to make her smile. Couldn’t kiss her and evoke a throaty moan of sheer longing. Couldn’t hear anything more than an empty laugh meant to comfort but not assure him. Her very movements were hollow!_

_“Say something,” he begged. “Anything.”_

_“Do you require something, Knight-Captain?” the vision inquired, not once blanching to reveal emotion._

_It was as if he had been robbed of breath. He felt as if he was being strangled by this vision painted by the Fade. He rose to his feet, staggering back into a massive bronze statue. The behemoth drove its spear down on Cullen in one vicious strike. All went dark._

\--

He couldn’t recall the last time he had ran so quickly. He wasn’t certain his feet actually touched the ground more than three times in his sprint to Gaerwyn’s quarters. There was the reminiscent sound of a door slamming shut behind him, but it didn’t truly register until he reached the Great Hall.

Upon reaching Gaerwyn’s chamber door, he found that his hammering heartbeat matched the rhythm he was pounding out on the paneled wood. The door shuddered in its frame.

The mage threw open the door, her hair disheveled and clothes rumpled. There was no pause between her saying his name and him pulling her into a crushing embrace.

“Cullen? What’s wrong?” She bolted the door shut with her free arm.

“Forgive me,” he whispered.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” she said gently. “In your own time.”

The two sat down at the base of the stairs. “A nightmare,” Cullen said. “I… you were made Tranquil. Again. I couldn’t protect you.”

She placed a hand on his shoulder. “It’s alright.” She kissed him softly on the cheek. He was quick to reciprocate the gesture by capturing her lips with his own.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “The thought of losing you. I can’t…”

Gaerwyn wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down into an embrace. He allowed himself this moment of weakness, resting his head against her chest. Her heartbeat resonated next to his ear, a steady and gentle rhythm that spoke of the consistency he longed for. Squeezing her wrist lightly, he finally pulled away.

“Hawke told you about what I said, didn’t she?” he said, searching her eyes for an answer.

The mage nodded.

“Gaerwyn, I am not that man anymore. I realize that I will never be able to take back what I said, but I swear to you, I realize I was wrong. What I felt was unworthy and I can only pray that I can atone…” He placed his hands over his eyes. “What you must think of me…”

She knelt before the man and slotted herself between his legs. She rested a hand over his knee, running a thumb over the slight indentations present. “You have never given me a reason to distrust you,” she said. “When you look at me, who do you see?”

“You. Just you. A person who I care dearly for,” he said. He averted his gaze in hopes of alleviating his blush. “You always have been. I mean—“ She quieted his panicking with a kiss. “What I mean to say is that you’re not a weapon. You’re a person,” he finished.

Gaerwyn rose to her feet and offered him her hands. He took both, finding solace in her touch.

“Come with me,” she whispered, guiding him towards her chamber door.

Cullen didn’t need convincing. He followed Gaerwyn through the Grand Hall and into the gardens. Never had he seen the area void of people. Typically the gardeners were at work tending to the herbs used by the Inquisition alchemists and apothecaries. Chantry officials would mill around the garden seeing to visiting aristocracy and worshippers alike. A gaggle of mages and scholars sought refuge here to study, often damaging the solace by breaking into long-winded arguments.

Overhead the sky was dusted with hundreds of stars and no moon.

Gaerwyn cupped her hands together over her mouth. She inhaled sharply and exhaled a warm breath that gilded the crevices of her fingers in a golden light.

“Not fireflies exactly,” the mage whispered. She unfolded her hands to reveal a small light flickering in her palm. She blew into her hands once more, releasing hundreds of wisps into the air. “But close, wouldn’t you say?”

The sight was enamoring. Gaerwyn’s flock of will-o-the-wisps drifted about the two, pulsing with magic and light. He could have sworn that in the distance his sister was shouting for him to make haste. Couldn’t have mother and father finding out that they had slipped away in the dead of night, now could they? Under this starlit sky, Gaerwyn reached out and pulled the former Templar into an embrace.

“Denying one’s past is pointless,” she murmured. “But despising a person for who they once were is even more so. I accept your past, Cullen. The man who you once were is not the one who has me utterly head-over-heels. He isn’t the one who has me willingly play chess only to know I’ll lose miserably. Or pull him into the garden in the middle of the night to kiss him senseless.” She punctuated the sentence by kissing him tenderly. “It’s you. It will always be you... I don’t want anyone else.”

Cullen tightened his hold around the mage, permitting himself to press his face into her shoulder and breathe.

“Come lie down with me,” the mage whispered. She gestured towards the ground. In a show of charming jocularity, Cullen wrapped his arms tightly about the lass and fell onto his back with her sprawled over his front.

“I suppose that’s one way to go about it,” Gaerwyn said with a laugh. She nestled herself in between Cullen’s arm and side, threading her fingers through his and settling their hands over his heart.

“You mentioned something about kissing me senseless? I may have misheard, of course,” Cullen said.

“Allow me to clarify,” Gaerwyn replied, nipping his lower lip playfully. A deep growl emanated from his as he pulled himself onto his arms to capture her mouth in a deep kiss.

The garden remained alight with the floating wisps, which now lingered to and fro on a whimsical breeze. Save for the spontaneous rustle of leaves lilting in the wind, the only sound that penetrated the silence was the Inquisitor’s and her Commander’s soft, conversational voices. A dialogue that was often broken by long kisses and faint laughter 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my playthrough of Inquisition, I met my Hawke and thought she was probably one of the sadder characters I'd created. I honestly can't say where she stands on Ander's decision to blow up the Chantry, but I know that she hasn't had it easy since Kirkwall. When I actually began writing this chapter I realized that my Hawke was going to be much more significant to the plot than I had intended.
> 
> I've been wanting to examine one element of Cullen's past for a while. The events of the Ferelden Circle is something I'm saving for a later point. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	25. Weathering the Mountain (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and Gaerwyn have their first argument. Before either can apologize, Gaerwyn's must leave for the Western Approach. That is... if she makes it out of the mountain pass first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so so so sorry for how long it has taken me to update. The last month has been exceedingly eventful and classes began this week. I've sort of been running in circles trying to get everything in order.
> 
> The second part will be posted shortly after this. The final page count was twenty-eight pages, so it's a bit necessary to halve the chapter.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> Second half of this chapter will be **NSFW** for sexual content.

Gaerwyn ducked beneath Hawke’s blow, rolling to the side and jabbing at the Champion’s stomach with her practice staff. Hawke promptly sidestepped out of harm’s way.

The mage training grounds were a small, field barren of anything save a few training dummies. Unlike the sparring area provided for the non-magic users in Skyhold, the mage grounds were set fifteen minutes outside of the fortress. To avoid harming innocent bystanders with a stray spell, Gaerwyn suggested the distance from their base. Her proposal was met with a positive response from her advisors, who did not want to see visiting gentry make a mad dash to the gate, and the mages, who were all too aware of what ramifications magic could have. The grounds were utilized often for classes in combat magic. Many of the mages who displayed a mastery in the arcane arts, yet did not wish to be stationed in far off Inquisition footholds, would act as mentors for the young apprentices. It wasn't uncommon for these classes to attract a small gathering of bystanders, who observed and offered support. Typically, these groups were no larger than ten people at a time. For the observer's safety, the mages made that rule incontrovertible. Of course, whenever the Inquisitor took to the field, a crowd was wont to follow, and the mages had accepted that their rules did not extend to the Inquisitor. When her opponent happened to be the Champion, most of Skyhold turned out to see the match.

Hawke wasn’t prepared for the trained kick that knocked her legs out from beneath her. She promptly recovered, catching herself by bracing her arm against the ground and pushing onto her haunches. No one could deny that Claudia Hawke was quick on her feet. She mentioned that she had sparred with a rogue pirate on multiple occasions- all of which had forced her to value speed over head-on combat- as well as seduction, which, Hawke admitted, she was still attempting to perfect.

Hawke leapt to the side and swung her staff down upon Gaerwyn’s head. The Inquisitor matched her blow for blow, catching the weapon with the shaft of her own staff, twisting out of a potential deadlock and then gracefully gliding away. Her stance was unusual, Cullen observed. While many mages squared their feet so to keep themselves firmly balanced, Gaerwyn often kept her feet planted together, or with one poised before the other.

She opted to advance upon Hawke’s position, only to step backwards when met head-on.

“So Hawke was taught by Isabela and her father. You can see the two techniques mingling. It does leave some ugly openings in her defense though,” Bull noted, stroking his chin with his thumb. “A mage is about defense when attacked like that, but a rogue is about speed. They move too quickly for their weaknesses to be exploited. She’s moving quickly to remove her exposed points, but doubles back to defend too. Out of instinct I'd guess. Give that girl a set of daggers.”

Cullen nodded. He made a weak attempt at trying to appear as if he did not want to be present. Having been corralled into attendance by Josephine and Varric, Cullen “unwillingly” made the trek out to the mage's training grounds. There was little denying that the Inquisitor and the Champion were performing an awe-inspiring display of prowess and deadly grace. There was even less point in denying that Cullen was curious about Gaerwyn's technique. He coughed into his hand and clear his throat. The dirt kicked up from the match drifted towards the onlookers in a billowing cloud. He blinked to clear the grime from his eyes.

“What of the Inquisitor?” Cullen asked finally. Bull smirked. Blasted Ben-Hassrath knew all too well that the Commander was utterly fascinated.

“She moves a bit more slowly, but her defense is solid,” he said. “She’s combining typical casting and defending stances with something else. That fancy-footwork makes her hard to catch. If Hawke were too catch on to the pattern though-“

The crowd’s cheering was silenced by the crisp ‘thwack’ that echoed across the ring. Hawke slumped to the ground while clutching her side. A square blow to her rib cage, Cullen realized. If it was anyone but Gaerwyn and her staff was substituted for a blade, the Champion of Kirkwall would have been no more. Claudia held up her hand in a show of surrender.

“Too little, too late.” Bull chuckled.

“I couldn’t spot a pattern,” Cullen said.

“No? Probably weren’t focusing on her footwork is my guess,” Bull said with a cackle.

Gaerwyn offered Hawke a hand. The Champion took it gratefully and leveraged herself to her feet via the Inquisitor’s support and her own practice staff. They spoke amiably, making it clear for the bystanders that the result of the match did not include any form of ill will.

“That’s clever,” Josephine piped in. “And so lovely!”

“What are you saying?” Cullen asked. He dropped the façade of being present against his own volition.

“Her footwork is akin to a technique one would see on a dance floor, Commander,” Josephine explained. She smiled. “Much faster, of course, but graceful.”

The grounds came alive with howling cheers and whooping. Gaerwyn and Claudia visibly flinched with surprise. Neither were accustomed to being observed from the sidelines when fighting; they probably forgot that their sparring match was the object of entertainment in the first place.

“If her opponent caught on to her technique, she’d be in deep shit,” Bull continued. “Of course, she alternates between dances enough that it wouldn’t be much of an issue until—“

“Inquisitor!” Cullen exclaimed. He hadn’t noticed that she had made the short trek to the edge of the training enclosure until she stood before him, her gear covered in dust and worn from when she had hit the ground. The woman smiled. She propped her staff against her shoulder and offered a shrug to the Commander as response.

“Hey, Boss,” Bull offered as greeting. “Why don’t you and the Commander here get into the ring together? Could be fun.”

“I don’t think that would be wise, seeing as the Inquisitor isn’t versed with swords. That’s not to say you can’t defend yourself- I mean you can, of course. It’s just, I-I, u-umm.” He pressed a hand to the back of his neck and averted his gaze.

“I agree with Cullen,” Gaerwyn said. “Not on the grounds of our different styles of fighting, so much as on the grounds that either of us losing would look bad. We can’t risk morale.”

“You think your soldiers would lose faith in the one who lost?” Bull asked incredulously.

“People have abandoned causes for far pettier reasons,” the mage mused. “I also must prepare for tomorrow. Seeing as we leave for the Western Approach at dawn.”

“Don’t remind me,” the Qunari groused. "Seriously, boss. What if you run into a dragon and I'm not there? How fucking boring will it be for me?"

The mage checked her fingernails in a show of idle amusement. “There have been dragons sightings—“

“Don't rub it in,” he groused.

"I'll send word once we catch sight of one. I can't go after it without you, now can I?" the Inquisitor amended. Bull responded by breathing out a short, pleased hum of approval. That certainly changed his tune, Cullen thought.

Gaerwyn smirked. “I have some reports to hand off to you, Commander. Would you come to my quarters later?”

“You can just send the documents via messenger…” He fell silent when he heard Bull stifle a laugh and Josephine cough to disguise a giggle. Oh. She didn’t actually mean reports. Maker, euphemisms evaded him still. “Of course, Inquisitor.”

“Excellent.” She departed with Hawke only moments later, the two speaking animatedly about one topic or another.

“I… um, I have paperwork to finish,” Cullen said, the blush heating his cheeks intensifying tenfold.

“Of course,” the Lady Ambassador said with a placating smile. She and Bull shared a look that clearly stated that they were all too aware of the innuendo before the Commander had been.

\--

“Come in!” the Inquisitor called over her shoulder.

Cullen pushed the chamber door open and ascended the stairs with ease. He was still unaccustomed to visiting Gaerwyn’s quarters, but welcomed the change of scenery. The roaring fire in the hearth tickled the bottom of a tea kettle, the faint burbling of water was barely audible over the crackling logs.

The Inquisitor sat examining some trinket or another at her desk, turning it over in her hands with care.

“I found this while we were in Crestwood,” Gaerwyn said. She lifted up a small griffon figurine or ivory. The creature struck a regal prose, its tail curved around one leg.

“It appears you found quite a few figurines,” Cullen commented. He glanced towards the mantle of the fireplace pointedly, where a row of ten toy soldiers of varying origin stood at ready. He turned his gaze back to the massive obsidian paperweight standing vigil at the corner of her desk.

Gaerwyn set the griffon down and slipped out of her seat. She approached the Commander and pressed a kiss to his jaw, which he reciprocated with some hesitation.

“Something wrong?” she asked.

“No, no… it’s just that your room is so cluttered now. Is it even comfortable to live in?”

Gaerwyn quirked an eyebrow. “I suppose I brought a few things back from traveling. Is it that bad?”

He gestured to the figurines lining the tops of her bookshelves and the mantle. The Inquisitor glanced over her shoulder before flicking her gaze back to him and shrugging.

“It’s perfectly livable. I think it’s cozy,” she said.

Cullen snorted. He didn’t intend for it to be derisive, but the sharp exhalation of air was certainly not playful. Gaerwyn appeared taken aback by what she perceived to be a scoff.

“Honestly, I feel like I’ve stepped into a teenager’s bedroom. It’s cluttered with unimportant paraphernalia!” The words had departed from his lips before he had the chance to consider what was said. Gaerwyn promptly turned her back on the man so to not indicate what sort of reaction the statement had induced.

“Well, I wouldn’t exactly know what a typical teenager’s room would look like, now would I?” she replied darkly. Her response seemed to hang in the air like a challenge.

The throbbing in Cullen’s temples seemed to worsen. Perhaps the silence had drawn attention to it, or perhaps his clenched jaw only contributed to the perpetually underlying anguish. All the same, Cullen was suddenly irritable and in no mood to withdraw his words and make the proper amendments.

“Perhaps it was wise for the Circle to not allow you more than the necessities,” he said. Gaerwyn’s shoulders tensed.

She sailed towards her desk, grasping up a pile of books with one jerky grab. She began to shelve the tomes with dangerously sharp movements.

“Have you given any consideration as to what visiting nobility would say if they were invited to your quarters? For wine or conversation, perhaps?” Cullen pressed.

“Cullen, these are my quarters. Why should I concern myself with what others think about it? Do you honestly care about the gaping hole in your ceiling? Even though it lets in the chill, rain, and birds?” Gaerwyn asked.

“Messenger birds,” Cullen corrected. He didn’t notice the corner of Gaerwyn’s mouth twitch as she pressed her lips into a thin line. “It allows for me to correspond with troops and Leliana without the hassle.”

“Because a trip to the rookery is such a perilous journey,” the mage scoffed, her words drowning in sarcasm. “Your reasoning makes you sound lazy.”

“I am not lazy—“ He felt his migraine worsen then.

“Who are you to say my quarters are cluttered when your office looks like you were robbed blind?” She leaned against the bookshelf and focused a venomous glare on the man.

“With my work! The difference between you and I is that I concern myself with what’s important while you’d rather clog your space and time with insignificant trifles,” he returned, the statement forming outside of his mouth.

Gaerwyn stared at him in horror. “You… don’t think I concern myself with important matters?” The words were laced with palpable hurt. His mind was sent reeling when a look of utter pain flooded over her features.

Only then did Cullen realize the line he had crossed. “N-no. I didn’t mean…”

She covered her mouth. “I see...” she whispered.

“Gaerwyn, I—“

Her meek approach to the argument suddenly turned feral. She stepped around the desk and crossed the divide set between them.

“I suppose the very act of becoming Inquisitor isn’t me concerning myself with important matters? Saving our soldiers from some Avvar prig, or going to Crestwood and dealing with the rift and dragon must mean I’m such a petty individual!” Her throat was constricting, threatening to force a sob from her lips. “If I involve myself with such trifles, then what do you think of us being together?”

“I didn’t mean—“

“Please leave.”

He extended a hand to touch her shoulder, only to recognize that her posture indicated that all physical contact was now unwelcome.

“You leave tomorrow,” Cullen began helplessly. “The Western Approach is—“

“A long journey. I know,” she said tersely. “I need some time to think, Cullen. If we continue this now, I might say something I can’t take back.” Her tone softened some. “I value what we have. I… need time to calm down.”

Her chambers had dropped significantly in temperature since the onset of their mounting tensions, Cullen realized. In fact, the room had chilled to the point where he could see his breath hovering next to his face. Gaerwyn hastily wiped at the layer of frost coating her tunic and then tugged at the ice capping the tips of her hair.

The Commander departed from the room, filled with regret over what had been said. His eyes drooped with fatigue. If the situation had gone better, he had no doubt that he would have fallen asleep on the couch, with his head resting in her lap. Just for a bit, he would close his eyes and set aside his duties. She would wake him a little after midnight to inquire if he would like to move to her bed. He would thank her for her generosity but take his leave shortly afterwards. Gaerwyn may jest about his departure, yet she never bore him ill will over opting to sleep in his own quarters. Maker, why had he said those things?

He chose to take a detour instead of his usual route through the rotunda in order to not rouse Solas. He ascended the steps up the battlements, to see a pale, wiry figure hopping lithely from merlon to crumbling merlon, while the gaping embrasures presented the threat of an unsightly fall that was largely ignored. Cullen assumed it was a recruit who had forsaken logic in the face of idiocy. Perhaps he was drunk- that would hardly be surprising, Cullen mused. He advanced upon the young man, in hopes of removing him from danger before the inevitable occurred.

“Feelings that can’t be put into words,” the figure said. “Head feels like it’s being sundered by a blade. The pain is a prison.”

“Cole? What are you doing out here?” Cullen asked.

“Listening,” the boy said, as if it were obvious. “To the guard posted by the gates. He has an old injury. It hurts him. Reminds him of when his little sister was killed and he couldn't reach her before the Darkspawn did.” Cole sat down on the merlon nearest Cullen. “I hear you too. And her.”

“W-what?”

“A place of my own. A room that belongs only to me. A bed, not a pallet leaking old straw set by the fire. An escape. A home within a home. Yet it is not mine. Josephine has left her touch everywhere- as has Vivienne. Perhaps if I place myself here, it will become less of them and more of me.” Cole’s words were spoken in a near indifferent monotone, save for the inflection on the final word. The need was all too apparent.

Cullen exhaled through his nose. “So she felt like she was living in the home of someone else?”

“It won’t be permanent. Nothing in my life is permanent. Yet I want to feel like I belong. If not for a little while,” Cole said. “You want her to know she is wanted, desired. She doesn’t know that. The words said sting like bees.”

“I don’t know what to do…” Cullen murmured.

“Bee stings need time,” Cole said. “Time for the hurt to fade.”

Cullen raised a quizzical eyebrow. “I should drop the topic then?”

"Ignoring the sting doesn't make it better. Have to make a balm. Heal the hurt," Cole murmured.

"You're not making any sense, Cole," Cullen said with a sigh. "I should leave her alone, but I should also fix my mistake?"

"Yes," Cole said, as if he had acquired a small victory. "I think..."

The Commander sighed quietly. "Good night, Cole."

He returned to his quarters after unceremoniously taking his leave of the spirit. A large droplet of water hit him squarely on the brow when he stepped towards the ladder leading to his bedchamber. A blustering wind gusted through his tower, sending loose sheaves of parchment flying every which way. He sighed as he recognized the telltale signs of a worsening headache applying pressure to his temples. Though the headache was a symptom common to his lyrium withdrawals, the coughing fits he had been experiencing were not. As if on command, his throat constricted and he hacking loudly into his fist.

Upon ascending the ladder to his personal quarters, Cullen was struck by how empty the chamber actually was. The bed was comfortable, certainly, but save for that, the only furnishings were a chest, a nightstand fashioned from a barrel, and a candelabra tucked into the corner. Unlike the austerity Cullen had idealized for many years, the room gave off a feeling of emptiness. As if there was a perpetual lack of some element.

The Inquisitor’s quarters were plush- extravagant would be an underwhelming word, by Cullen’s standards. Yet, unlike Cullen’s space, Gaerwyn’s was welcoming and gave off an innate sense of warmth. The trinkets were a nonissue in that respect. Especially when her need to personalize the area had not reached the point where all that was present were shelves upon shelves of bric-a-brac. Even if her collection reached the sort of magnitude, which Cullen prayed it wouldn’t, he didn’t have a say. Not unless the space was shared with him, and, in that case, he would happily build more shelves if necessary. Living with her-

The Commander’s mind went completely silent at the thought. He wasn’t opposed to the idea, but their relationship was still so young. To make the offer now seemed premature. To think beyond the present of their situation came with too much risk. The Inquisition was at war. Either of them could die in battle or due to a bard's well-placed dagger in the back.

Cullen sighed. The thrumming pressure became a battering, repetitive stab at his forehead. He collapsed onto his bed, ignoring the edges of his armor biting into his sides and front. Perhaps that pain would cancel out that manifesting behind his eyes, or at least make it tolerable by comparison.

\--

Gaerwyn threw another trinket into the crate, ignoring the loud thud. She slammed the lid down with both hands, cursing loudly upon realizing that the skin of her palm had been pinched in the process.

She shoved the crate into the nearby storage room, taking little care in how she handled the trifles. The sickening sound of glass shattering could be heard from within the confines of the crate, permitting Gaerwyn a moment of pause. Maker, why had she decided to make the matter of trinkets into an argument?

A loud clap of thunder sounded overhead, echoing across the mountain range like a stampede of druffalo. Lightning speared the sky, ripping a seam of light into the darkness.

Gaerwyn threw open her balcony doors and walked into the downpour. She was instantly drenched by the drizzle, each droplet like a fat coin striking her form. The rain was so heavy that the mage found it near impossible to breathe regularly. She easily could have walked directly into a waterfall and experienced the same pounding sensation on her shoulders and head.

This would be the fourth rainstorm in the past week that had hit Skyhold and the surrounding area. The mountain pass would be reduced to churned mud, but the journey still had to be made. The situation in the Western Approach was too dire to neglect for much longer without the ramifications worsening.

The rain soaked her to the skin, chilling her to the very core. She remained rooted in place until the rush of water was on par with heavy stones falling atop her.

\--

The following morning was overcast with filmy grey clouds and a persistent drizzle. Needless to say that Dorian was very vocal about the weather, and Varric was ready with a prompt, arguably witty, response. Cassandra held her steed’s reins steady, interjecting on occasion with a disgusted grunt.

Gaerwyn pulled the hood of her cloak further over her features, paying particular attention to keep the wind off of her face. The tips of her fingers were already numb, causing her movements to feel clumsy and hindered.

Unlike on previous departures, Cullen did not appear until the Inquisitor’s company was making for the lowered portcullis. Typically he was present to assist Gaerwyn in mounting her horse and to steal a kiss over her knuckles. He’d slip small parcels of food into her saddlebag when he thought her not looking- all too aware that the mage would often forget to eat during the first few days of travel.

Gaerwyn was already perched atop her steed when Cullen arrived, hunched over with her arms curled around her frame. One of his officers followed at a brisk pace behind the Commander, shielding a writing apparatus with his arm.

“Ah, here to see us off, Commander?” Hawke inquired. She sat primly on her horse, the air crackling about her with suppressed electricity.

Cullen nodded. “I’ve received reports from the pass’s patrol of unsafe traveling conditions. Please remain cautious.”

“Oh, since you asked so nicely,” Hawke crooned. She urged her horse into a canter.

“Gaerwyn.” Cullen placed a hand on her calf. “Please stay safe.”

“Thank you,” she murmured. “Try to rest some, Commander.” She outstretched a hand and grazed it over his forehead. “You might have a fever.”

He nodded. The usage of his title stung. Even when her words were brimming with kindness and concern, the formality was a knife-twist in his gut. The Commander cleared his throat and patted the saddlebag situated next to her leg. “Stay safe,” he murmured.

“Is something amiss, Commander?” his officer inquired.

“No… well, yes. I have work I must attend to. Inform the soldiers that their training will be postponed in favor of seeking out leaks and other weaknesses within the hold. Pay particular attention to guest quarters and the barracks. I won’t have our forces suffering, nor will I risk the ire of any visiting dignitaries,” Cullen said. He lurched as his boot was caught in a puddle of viscous mud. With a grunt, he trudged forward and out of the small mire.

“Shall I enlist members of the staff for assistance?”

“Speak with Josephine. She’ll have knowledge of who is available to help. I won’t place more work on them if I can avoid it,” Cullen said, clearing his throat.

“Shall I also have a few of our carpenters sent to your quarters, ser? To deal with your roof?”

“No. It’s not necessary,” Cullen replied.

“With all due respect, ser, you should listen to the Inquisitor. Your health is invaluable if we art to maintain the upkeep of this entire cause. We rely upon your guidance. Who will we turn to if you take ill?” his officer continued to press.

“Your concern has been noted,” Cullen said. “Dispense my orders and ensure that everyone has received their assignments. Dismissed.”

“Ser.”

The Commander was left alone, with no company save for the blustering gale rattling through the courtyard. He became aware of the thickening hurt in his chest gathering. He released a haggard cough only to be greeted with a sensation akin to blades being dragged across his front. It took him longer to convince himself that the cough was nothing more than a harbinger of a cold than it did to recover from the cough itself.

\--

The pass seemed narrower and all the more hostile than when it was traveled in mild weather. Only two horses were capable of walking abreast of each other the further the company proceeded down the path. The faint echo of rocks clashing together sounded overhead. What trees sparsely populated the slopes were crackling from the shifting rivulets of soil running across the steep slope and displacing their roots in doing so.

Gaerwyn’s horse splashed a thick plume of mud onto the Inquisitor’s leggings, oblivious to its rider’s discomfort. Her hands gripped the reins in a numb choke hold, her knuckles white and stiff from maintaining a stagnant position.

Hawke had taken point of the company, her horse riding along at a steady, unruffled pace. She piped out a tune on a shepherd’s flute, the fine nuances of her playing lost to the persistent rainfall.

“She picked it up when she lived in Lothering,” Varric said, guiding his steed to step adjacent of the Inquisitor. “She taught her siblings. She’s like you in a lot of ways.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You play the lute to remember better times don’t you?” The dwarf took to humming Hawke’s melody absently.

“We all need our distractions…” Gaerwyn muttered.

“I couldn’t agree more. So what are you trying to ignore?” Varric pressed.

“Oh? Shall I give the writer more tinder for his stories?” Gaerwyn inquired. “I didn’t bring my lute with me- I don’t see why you’re prying.”

He chuckled. “How many books did you pack?”

“I don’t see how that’s relevant—“

“Five?”

“Varric—“

“Seven?”

“Ten. Ten books, Varric!” Gaerwyn growled.

“That explains why lifting up your pack is on par with carrying a dwarf child,” Dorian piped in. “No offense, Master Tethras.”

“I’ll let it pass this time, Sparkler,” Varric said. “You still haven’t answered my question, Lightning—“

The pass shuddered under the horse's feet, the very ground undulating like the sea during a storm. Hawke’s light, lilting tune that brought forth images of verdant pastures was cut short with one shrill note. Her head whipped towards the slope running parallel to the path, and her sun-kissed features ran pale. The mountainside was rushing down to meet them, accumulating a variety of debris as its approach gained.

A mudslide.

“Run!” Hawke screamed. She dug her heels into her steed’s haunches only to lose her balance when the creature broke into a prompted gallop. Hawke was sent topping onto the ground, the air being effectively knocked out of her lungs in one swift blow. Varric made to advance on Hawke’s current position, only to have Cassandra grab him by the collar of his duster and seat him on her steed. The sable-haired warhorse was urged back towards Skyhold, all the while Varric’s desperate protests and enraged curses filled the air.

“Hawke!” Gaerwyn didn’t think. She had no time to consider the ramifications of her actions. She made for the fallen Champion, dismounting and lifting the woman to her feet. Claudia’s lips began to form words, yet the Inquisitor was too pressed for time to pursue the current situation with delicacy. Gaerwyn pushed Hawke onto her horse, permitting no time for the mage to sit upright but only to dangle helplessly like a sack of wheat from the saddle. She slapped the mount’s haunch and watched as it bolted.

Try as she may, Claudia Hawke could not turn the horse about. She only barely managed to grip the saddle’s right stirrup with one hand and the horn with her other. With jaded vision, she watched as the mountainside rushed over the Inquisitor, leaving nothing in its wake.

\--

“Cullen!” Hawke was at his door, flanked by at least thirty soldiers. Her hair was plastered to her face and her riding leathers were drenched.

“What happened?” Cullen knew the look in Hawke’s eyes. It was the same stare filled with sheer desperation that he had seen when she sought out his aid so many years ago. When Carver had been captured.

As Hawke opened her mouth to speak, her voice was drowned out by that of the many soldiers that hovered outside his office door.

“Quiet!” Cullen bellowed. His roar was hindered by the punctuation of a cough. “What’s wrong, Hawke? Where is Gaer- the Inquisitor?”

“I don’t know. Those conditions you warned us about were far worse than anticipated,” she choked. “She went under with a mudslide.”

Cullen was at the door to his chambers before Hawke had managed to speak five words. He ordered a soldier to fetch his horse and another to procure a length of rope and climbing equipment. The remaining soldiers were ordered to the pass to begin clearing away rubble. He paused to order a messenger to fetch Grand Enchanter Fiona and as many mages as they could muster at such short notice. Never had he seen the forces of the Inquisition act as quickly as when they learned their Herald was in danger.

“Can you risk leaving when you’re taking ill?” Hawke asked. “Let me help Cassandra direct them.”

“I’m not going to sit idle when she may be dying under a mountain’s worth of rubble, Hawke!” Cullen snapped.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“As… as am I. I shouldn’t have snarled. Forgive me, Hawke.”

“I’ll do one better. I’m coming with you.” She rapped him on the shoulder lightly as she passed by him. “Hop to it, Commander!”

Cullen raced after the Champion, his feet touching the ground perhaps twice in his mad dash to the stables. The rain was intensifying, while the wind accompanying it felt like the cracking of a whip against his face. While walking a straight line was next to impossible in the storm, Cullen managed to reach the stables without incident. His horse was readied and galloping towards the pass in a matter of seconds.

He heard the thundering hoof beats of Claudia’s horse at his side. Yet it was next to impossible to distinguish the sound of his horse's frenzied galloping from the heartbeat hammering in his throat.

\--

Save for the spontaneous echo of mud and rock trickling down the mound of debris, the pass was silent.

Cullen had expected to find the area deserted- fleeing from a mudslide was perhaps one of the only feasible forms of survival, after all. Instead, he found Dorian toiling away at the debris, lifting away massive stones while spitting out a string of curses in Tevene.

“Don’t just stand there!” Dorian yelled over his shoulder, rainwater coursing down his face and effectively ruined his well-groomed appearance. His hair was disheveled and his mustache drooped in a near comical appearance. The look of abject terror seared into his features was enough to make Cullen feel nauseous. “Help me! I can’t risk using magic without hurting her!” The panic in his voice was near palpable.

The mage whirled around and continued tearing at the aftermath of the mudslide, his breathing coming in heavy bursts.

The bleakness of the predicament became all too apparent then. If Dorian, the suave, collected mage, was reduced to clawing at the mud and rocks, what could Cullen do? The sinking awareness that his thoughts were gradually easing him into the thralls of utter helplessness enraged him. He dropped to his knees and joined Dorian in pushing aside the rock.

“Maker, are you honestly going to pick away at the rocks?” Hawke cracked her knuckles loudly. She inhaled, spitting out an incantation that carried the force of a landslide. The magic she called upon drew the rubble to one focused point, robbing the Commander of his breath in one fell display of power. While effective, the spell only served to provide room for more rubble to tumble forward.

“Damn it!” Hawke screamed. Cullen felt her call on the Fade- a strong, keening cry for help.

"Stop it, Hawke!" Dorian placed a firm hand over her wrist. "You can't lose control in a place like this. Not without risking everyone's safety."

Force magic wasn't any use when presented with a disaster like this. Not when rock, trees, and mud were heaped up in one mass conglomerate.

She's dead.

The words echoed in his mind until he was robbed of his very breath. He collapsed to his feet and picked up where Dorian had left off, grasping up one rock after another. A single man doing the work of a hundred was hopeless.

"Where are the soldiers?" he yelled over his shoulder, his voice pitched with panic.

"Cullen," Hawke began gently. She placed a hand on his arm. "Stop. She's not coming back."

"Don't say that!" He was begging. The very authority he carried had left him. "We argued last night. Over something so petty. I can't leave it like this. She needs to know that I care for her. That I-"

"It's too late for that," Hawke said softly. She smiled sadly, her eyes edged with unyielded tears. "We're here."

Cullen knew her intentions were kind, that she was drawing upon the loss of her sister and mother then. All the same, he argued that she didn't understand.

The scent of burning air reached his nostrils. While the magic the Champion had called forth was immense and near tangible, this power carried enough intensity to tear a rift into the Veil.

There was a spark followed by a sound akin to one striking tinder. A gash of light split the air overhead, forming a tear in the Veil that separated the world of dreams and the world of material reality. The burning green luminescence of the Fade was near blinding. Boulders were lifted away from the path and inhaled by the Fade’s open maw.

When the small, hunched over figure of the Inquisitor rose to her feet, Cullen felt her name burn in his throat. He allowed for his impulse to have the better of him as he rushed down the path.

When she was within arm’s reach, the ground under their feet suddenly lurched. Cullen stumbled in an attempt to maintain his footing. She reached for him, closing the rift in her hurry to save him from a fall. With that gone, the rocks resumed their stampede with renewed vigor.

Hawke shouted an incantation that resonated like an earthquake. The rocks immediately rushing towards the two were blown aside- giving Gaerwyn and Cullen time enough to make a dash out of harm’s way. Even with her being a formidable mage, Hawke couldn’t keep deflecting the mud and debris without causing damage to the pass. She was tiring quickly as it was, seeing as she wasn't giving herself time between casting spells to restore her energy from the Fade.

The scent of magic and rainwater was thick in the air. With how deafening the rockslide was, the entire mountain may as well have been falling down upon their heads. While Hawke and Dorian may have been present to assist the Commander, they were soon caught in the path of the mudslide. There was little else for them to do but retreat.

The ground beneath Cullen’s feet crumbled. He felt Gaerwyn’s hand slacken from its hold on his surcoat, and he panicked.

“Don’t let go!” he shouted over the boulders thundering around them. He reached for her hand, only to grasp air. She was falling with one arm helplessly outstretched, grappling for purchase.

He didn’t think about the rocks that may crush him. The chance he may be carried away as well- or suffocated, for that matter.

Cullen leapt for her. He grasped her forearm while scrabbling for a hold on the rapidly disintegrating ground. She was dangling off the cliff side, her breath coming in short, panicked bursts.

“Let me go, Cullen,” she said, her voice quavering even in her efforts to remain strong.

He didn’t answer, he only held tighter.

“Cullen! I can’t let you die!” she insisted.

“Do you honestly think I could abandon you? Do you really think you’re so expendable?” he roared. Even when the ground beneath him was buckling, he held fast. “To the Inquisition? To me?”

Gaerwyn stared up at him, eyes bright with fear. “We’ll both die if you don’t let go,” she said. The pass was crumbling. This wasn't exactly an ideal time to argue. Dorian and Hawke’s shouts could be heard in the distance, urging the two onward.

“We’re not dying,” he stated, his voice making it clear he would brook no argument. “Give me your other hand… please.” It wasn’t an order. He was pleading.

The Inquisitor swung her arm up and grabbed his wrist. She braced her feet against the mountainside for support while Cullen proceeded to lift her up. A scream of terror flew from her lips when the passage finally gave out. He lurched forward, his balance failing.

“Mages!” another voice rang out, Orlesian undertones lacing the vowels of the word. “Now!”

A chill seeped into the pass and the very earth crackled with frost. The mud began to thicken, and the rocks were rooted in semi-mobile positions. Cullen leaned back, easing the Inquisitor up with him.

“Quickly Commander! Inquisitor!” Grand Enchanter Fiona called. “Our magic won’t hold.”

They ran. Without releasing the other’s hand, they ran to the safety set behind allied lines. The rainfall was heavy on their backs but did little to deter their dash. Overhead, thunder rolled across the sky like a siege.

“Gaerwyn! Commander!” Dorian called. “You’re safe. Oh, thank the Maker!” He pulled the Inquisitor into a tight embrace, his words riddled with sobs of relief.

“I’m sorry for worrying you,” she murmured.

Distant hoof beats, that Gaerwyn had initially dismissed as thunder, were bearing down upon their location. She heard the riders whooping and spurring the mounts forward; the discordance that announced their approach rivaled the chaos of the mudslide itself.

“Inquisitor!” Cassandra rode to meet them with a small contingent of soldiers following on horseback. “Are you hurt?”

“A bit banged up,” Gaerwyn said. “Nothing serious.”

Cassandra dismounted. “How did you survive? You should have suffocated.”

“I managed to form a dome of ice around myself before I went under. I spent a great deal of my energy just trying to maintain it. I'm fortunate to not have run out of air while trying to open a rift,” Gaerwyn admitted. “Could we discuss this later?”

“Of course,” Cassandra ceded. Her words, while understanding, did little to mask her reluctance. “Rest, Inquisitor. Travel will be impossible until the pass is cleared.” The Seeker turned to the waiting soldiers. “After the storm has finished, we will begin the process of repairing the pass. Until then, you will return to your previously designated tasks. Dismissed.”

The forces dispersed like a flock of ravens flying homeward.

“You’re covered in mud!” Dorian exclaimed. “Look at my front!” Where he had held Gaerwyn to him was an muddy imprint set in her image. “Go bathe! Both of you!”

Cullen laughed. He couldn't help it. She was alive. He brought her into a tight embrace, overlooking how his muscles screamed in anguish when moved.

"Shall we return?" Gaerwyn asked.

Cullen offered the Inquisitor an arm, and she gladly threaded her own around the corded muscle of his bicep. The two walked –or, perhaps, limped- back to Skyhold, followed closely by Dorian and Hawke. Cassandra remained behind to examine the state of the pass, making her dissatisfaction known at loud intervals.

"Don't ever do that again. Do you hear me?" Dorian growled at the Herald.

She laughed weakly. "I'm in no shape to take risks like that for a while." She glanced over her shoulder. "Are you hurt, Hawke?"

The Champion shook her head. "Alive and well, thanks to you. I'm starting to wonder if you needed us in the first place to pull yourself from the rubble!"

Gaerwyn shrugged, only to wince when a bolt of pain lanced through her side.

"The healer should take a look at you once we make it back," Cullen said thoughtfully.

The Inquisitor could only agree. She inhaled. The scent of rain and mud filled her nostrils. She could breathe again. There was a significant deal of solace to take in the realization.


	26. Weathering the Mountain (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaerwyn and Cullen apologize after their argument.
> 
> Gaerwyn learns about what happened at the Ferelden Circle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **NSFW**
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> There is sexual content in this part. 
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> Thank you for reading!

She stood in the center of her chambers, slipping a loosely-fitted bath gown over her frame. The “portable” tub had long since been carried away by the servants, one grumbling about how the water sloshing over the rim was a sooty black. Her arms ached in a sort of way that assured her she was still alive. In a way that was strangely comforting.

There was a soft knock on her chamber door- next to imperceptible in impression. Gaerwyn doubted she had heard anything at all but the steady thrum of rain outside. She made for the staircase, taking care to not agitate her sore limbs with unnecessary hurry.

“I-inquisitor?” Cullen’s voice called from outside. “May I see you? T-that is, if you’re well enough. Or there. Maker, I could be talking to a bloody door...”

She leaned against the door frame casually. “You might be. Or you may be speaking with a maid come to bring the Inquisitor dinner.”

“Would the maid be so kind as to consult the Inquisitor in allowing me an audience? Only if she’s well enough- and only if she cares for my company, that is. I don’t want to intrude.”

“Oh? What business do you have with her so late in the evening?” Gaerwyn traced one idle finger over the door’s paneling.

“I… need to apologize,” he replied.

“What for?”

“Gaerwyn, I know it’s you—“

“My name is Irma. I am the Inquisitor’s maid. I must have a clear idea of what message to convey to her when asking permission for an audience at such an unorthodox hour. Honestly, high society would have your head, Commander,” Gaerwyn said.

She heard Cullen chuckle softly, only to clear his throat in order to avoid diverging from the task at hand.

“I spoke unkindly to her when last we spoke at length. I did not consider what impact my words may have. An… interesting young man allowed me some perspective as to how the Lady Inquisitor may have felt.” She heard the rustling of fabric brush over the door as Cullen leaned against it. “Maker, I’m not good at this at all.”

Gaerwyn bit her lip. “Honestly, I believe you’re doing well enough,” she stated. “There are so many who would refuse to acknowledge that they were in the wrong. So many who simply wouldn’t apologize. If you think that the Inquisitor won’t flounder, and hasn’t already, then I fear you are mistaken, my dear Commander. She is as flawed as any other mortal.”

A pregnant silence followed, interrupted only by the steady pattering of rain on the rooftop.

“Is she injured?” he asked quietly.

“Some bruises. No broken bones, fortunately. The healers made it clear that she wasn’t to strain herself for the next two weeks. She’s upset. She wanted to leave for the Western Approach once the pass was repaired. She is grateful to you, all the same.”

“May I… may I see her?” Cullen asked uncertainly.

“I believe that can be arranged.”

She pulled the door open to see her Commander timidly awaiting her. He was dressed in a simple tunic and trousers, his hair damp from bathing. There was a large bruise resting on his collarbone from the incident in the pass and a small cut striking a line over his cheek.

“May I come in?” he asked, unsure.

Gaerwyn stepped aside to allow him entrance. Once he had crossed the threshold and the door was shut behind him, he was stuttering out an incoherent apology- one that she shushed by pressing her lips to his. Gaerwyn was all too aware of the defined figure under his clothes, just as he was painfully aware she wore nothing under her thin bathing gown. She could feel his erection pressing against her stomach, and her core responded by burning between her legs.

The Inquisitor slipped her arms around his neck, easing herself all the closer to him. Cullen moaned into her mouth, his words lost to an incoherent prayer of awe. He pressed open-mouthed kisses to her neck and covered breasts, all the while slipping his hand into the heated space between her legs. His fingers danced over her inner thighs, caressing the tender skin. Gaerwyn moved into the contact, curling her fingers into the sleeves of his tunic.

“May I?” he asked breathlessly.

“Oh, Maker, touch me,” she begged.

Cullen pressed a finger against her clit, circling the bundle of nerves in languid motions. She moaned out, taking little shame in how she rutted against his touch. He kissed the column of her neck, her laughter mixing with heady gasps of want. Her chest heaved with each breath taken, nipples tightening into tight buds beneath the thin, near transparent fabric of her gown. Their gasps mingled in a breathy kiss that spoke volumes for their mutual lust.

With trained patience, Cullen pleasured her pearl until she was shivering. He nipped a trail of love bites over her exposed skin, hardening with each breathy whisper of his name. He slipped one finger inside her, moving it forward and backward with an agonizing slowness and delicacy, crooking his finger to better caress her inner walls. She bit her lip to stifle another moan- yet the very act of her drawing her lower lip between her teeth was maddening for the man.

“Harder,” she begged, her entrance clenching around his digit.

He proceeded to quicken his pace to find that Gaerwyn’s drawn out moans were soon hitching with tiny intakes of air. She was practically riding his hand to orgasm- not that Cullen seemed to mind. He bit her lower lip and was met with her voracious tongue. She pressed herself against him until there was no clear point where she ended and he began. She spoke words of encouragement, those words mingling with breathless curses.

He eased a second finger inside of her, and watched her attempt to maintain her composure- fighting the beckoning scream for release. His mouth went dry when she whimpered, her cunt clenching all the tighter around his fingers. He pressed his palm into her clit, massaging the small nub while alternating the movement of his hand to fast, thorough pumping motions.

Maker, she was so wet. Her breathing was weighted with her pleasure, and she had to lean against the wall to remain standing.

“Does this feel alright?” he asked, ignoring the strain of his erection. A bead of sweat detached from his hairline and ran down the side of his temple. He quickened his pace slightly, alternating the movement of his fingers to circular motions. She cried out.

“Yes! Maker!” Her breath was ragged.

“Come for me,” he whispered, capturing her mouth in a searing kiss, fondling one breast while proceeding to pump his fingers against her inner walls.

She came with a cry of ecstasy. Music, Cullen found himself thinking. He gently withdrew his soaked fingers, bringing one to his mouth and -when her eyes widened in shock- rolled the tip of his tongue over her release. She audibly swallowed.

He hummed his approval when tasting, which scorched Gaerwyn’s features with a blush.

“I want to feel you against me,” she whispered. The Commander happily consented. He lifted her into his arms, positioning her so that her sex aligned with the shaft of his member. She rolled her hips against his erection, doubling her efforts when he begged her to continue. He rutted against her, while his mouth clumsily sought out hers.

“Couch,” she said, gesturing towards her quarters. They hadn’t even bothered to climb the stairs before pursuing their amorous ministrations.

She clamped her legs around his center, and he mounted the stairs- all the while with the two kissing fervently. She slid her hands beneath his shirt, running them down the length of his torso before gliding them up his chest.

“This should go,” she whispered.

“I couldn’t agree more,” he playfully responded. He sat down heavily on the couch. In a show of coyness, Cullen lifted his arms up. The Inquisitor, more or less, tore his tunic from his back, throwing it behind her.

“So eager,” he laughed breathlessly. With Gaerwyn sitting on his lap, his chest pressed flush against hers, they began moving with slow, languid purpose. Cullen’s breathing grew all the more ragged, and his rutting more wanton. He thrust against her clit, tearing a deep moan from her lips.

“More,” she whispered, rolling her hips against him, slowly increasing the pace. Cullen let her set the rhythm as he began to play with the buttons at the front of Gaerwyn’s gown- ten silver clasps that stopped and spread into a beaded design around her middle. He looked to her. “May I undo your front?” He teased her nipples with his thumbs.

“Yes, Maker please—“ Her entire body arced when Cullen thrust up sharply into her, the head of his member straining against his trousers.

His lack of undress made it clear that the night’s proceedings were for her and her alone. When she had moved to unlace the front of his trousers, he stopped her with a touch to the wrist.

With slow, uninterrupted precision, the Commander undid the clasps on her front one by one. Gaerwyn’s hands flew to keeping her gown in place on her shoulders while Cullen peeled her lace front open, slowly revealing her pert breasts, her nipples tightening as her skin prickled when cold air and chilled fingers caressed her flesh.

He flicked one of her nipples lightly before leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to her breast. While sucking on one, using his tongue to roll the bud in his mouth, he stroked the other with his thumb. When he grazed his teeth over the mound, he received a keening moan of approval in response, spurring him on. Emboldened, he nipped the bud once more to have her tangle her hand into his hair so to maintain her balance on his lap.

“Should I keep doing that?” he asked.

She begged, breathlessly, “Please, Cullen, that feels amazin—“ her words were cut off by a moan as he took her nipple between his teeth again and tugged at it.

She continued rubbing her exposed clit against his clothed manhood, finding herself near climax again. He could feel the pressure in his pelvis climbing. While he had managed to suppress the urge to bottom out whilst pleasuring Gaerwyn, he was finding the need all the more overwhelming.

“Gaerwyn… I’m going to. I don’t want to cause a mess—“ The Inquisitor kissed him gently, if not a bit clumsily.

“Come for me, Cullen,” she growled, her voice lowered to a rasping husk, her statement punctuated with one last agonizingly slow roll of her lips.

He grasped her hips, holding her down on his straining erection. The sensation of release washed over him in one fell motion. A deep groan emanated from his chest and pooled in his mouth, promptly captured by the Inquisitor’s kiss. Gaerwyn reached her second climax shortly after, her entire body quivering with the act of her cresting. She slumped against his chest, pressing her nose into the crook of his neck and taking in his heady scent. Elderflower, oakmoss, and sweat. The smell of their mutual release gradually saturated the air as the time of their embrace lengthened.

“Should we clean up?” Gaerwyn asked softly, her breath tickling his collarbone.

“Can we stay like this for a little longer?” he asked in turn. “After what happened today, I just need to make sure this is real. It all feels so surreal.”

She hummed her agreement. “If that was what the foreplay is like, I wonder how the act itself will feel.”

“I fear we’ll have to put that off until an evening not following one of the most panicked, anxiety-ridden moments of my life. I’m bruised all over, and you, my dear Inquisitor, should recall that you were nearly crushed to death,” Cullen said with a dry, mirthless chuckle. He kissed her exposed shoulder. “Maker, how often do you find yourself in situations like the one in the pass?”

She shrugged, her gown falling loose around her arms. “I haven’t really given it much thought,” she mused.

The two fell quiet, almost dozing against the other. The occasional droplet of water from the Inquisitor’s hair would slide off one curved lock onto the Commander’s shoulder, pressing him to remain conscious.

“About what I said last night. I’m sorry. You’re right. These are your chambers, not mine.” He kept his gaze focused on the view provided by the balcony- though that image was being hindered by the persistent rainfall. “I don’t think you’re careless as Inquisitor. If anything, while you’re in the field I receive multiple reports daily stating what a great assistance you are.”

Gaerwyn nodded. “It was a silly argument, wasn’t it?”

His eyes flashed when meeting hers, the honey gold of his irises burning with an intense conviction. “You needing to feel as if you belong is not silly. It’s normal. I should have been more attentive to that and—“

“I forgive you. I’m still cross with you, though,” she said, words laced in a jest. “But it would be folly to say I didn’t have any part in the argument.”

Cullen smirked. “Of course, Inquisitor.”

“You’re not lazy. That was unkind of me to say,” Gaerwyn whispered. She sat up, adjusting her straps but opting to not button her gown. “I baited you as well. That was… downright unkind.”

“There may be some truth in it,” he admitted. “Though, it’s better to use the hole in my roof when my head begins to hurt. What I said about the Circle not allowing possessions… I never agreed with that. Not as a Templar, not now.” His gaze wandered over his room, brow furrowing as he took in her furnishings. “I, ah, see that what I said was taken to heart then.”

She averted her gaze. “Don’t feel bad.”

“No, please don’t do that,” he pleaded. “I should feel bad. What you said about how I view our relationship, I—“

“Cullen, you don’t need to—“

“Gaerwyn.” As she shifted her gaze to the side, he caressed her jaw with one calloused hand. The Inquisitor clasped her own hand over his touch, instinctively pressing tender kisses over his palm. “I value what we have as well. More than I can ever put into words.”

“I shouldn’t have said that. It was cruel and unkind and completely uncalled for,” she said, wiping at one eye with a mustered attempt at nonchalance.

“My dear Inquisitor,” he murmured, drawing her close to him. “What we have has made it possible for me to look beyond this war.”

Her eyes widened a fraction. “What do you…”

“I honestly believe that you can give the Inquisition, and the people we are trying to protect, a future. Being with you has only strengthened that conviction.” He kissed her neck, paying particular heed to how the muscles attached to her jaw tensed.

He glanced up to see Gaerwyn’s eyes tightly shut. She clapped a hand over her mouth and effectively curled in on herself to hide the fact that she was blushing an intense red- and fighting off an increasingly persistent onslaught of tears.

“I’m sorry,” he said sincerely. “I didn’t mean—“ His sentence was cut short when he released a sharp cough into his fist.

“Are you well?” Gaerwyn asked. She took the given opportunity to cast aside their current conversation.

“Perfectly,” he replied from behind his hand. “It’s nothing. Just the damp.”

She raised an eyebrow, her mouth falling into a thin line of skepticism.

“I didn’t mean to get you sick. I honestly don’t think it’s anything—“

Gaerwyn slipped between his legs, balancing on her haunches so that her ear was aligned with his chest. She asked him to inhale deeply, and showed no visible surprise when he proceeded to cough anew.

“You have a chest cold,” she said. “Until the rain lets up and this blasted season ends, for that matter, you are welcome to stay here.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose on you—“ Cullen began.

Gaerwyn stood up so that she towered over him… at her height where, when he was standing, she hardly reached his collarbone. She didn’t strike all too impersonating a figure due to size and, perhaps, partially because her front was still unbuttoned.

“Oh, Cullen, dear heart, I’m not asking you as a woman- I’m ordering you as the Inquisitor.” While her words were gentle and her eyes flashed mischievously, he knew she was completely serious. “I can’t have my Commander falling ill.”

He fought the impulse to laugh, resulting in a soft cough. “Of course, Inquisitor. I suppose the couch is suitable—“

“Must I spell it out for you?” she exclaimed. “Now, I am asking you as a woman. Share my bed. With me. Until the rain stops. Afterwards, as well, if you’d like.”

He didn’t know why the suggestion made him flush red. They had shared quarters and sleeping accommodations on countless other occasions. This was no different. Save for the fact that now there was an alternative when before there was none. Why was he being so methodical about this? He wanted to be near her. So why now, of all times, was he hesitating?

Gaerwyn waited, allowing the quiet to spread over the span of fifteen seconds. She couldn’t ignore the building anxiety sitting at the base of her throat. “I won’t force you into staying,” she said finally. “That was presumptuous and selfish of me and—“

“No, no, it wasn’t!” Cullen insisted. He stood, bridging the gap between him and her. “Just, the difference between back in Haven and even the Tower was that the servants weren’t overly present in either place… and we always used my quarters. I typically ask that the servants exclude me from their morning rounds, because I prefer my privacy.”

“I can respect that,” she replied. “I can also remedy it.” Gaerwyn, still with her front unclasped, walked out of her chambers and to the doorway beyond that. The sound of a bolt sliding into place was distinct, the echo carrying up to Cullen’s ears. She reappeared at the top of the stairs shortly after, a soft smile playing on her lips.

“Of course, I won’t keep you here if you don’t want that,” she said with a shrug. “That would be abusing my power as Inquisitor—“ Cullen lifted her up and slung her over his shoulder, all the while pressing a supportive hand to her bottom and wrapping another around her knees.

“What are you doing?” she laughed.

“Getting caught up in the moment, I’m afraid,” he replied, carrying her to the bed. He set her down delicately- prior to slumping down next to her. She ran a hand over his back in circular motions, gently massaging the knots forming at the base of his neck. He sighed, visibly relaxing under her ministrations.

“We should rest,” he murmured, sitting up slowly.

Gaerwyn eased the covers aside before slipping into the feathery bed’s embrace. Cullen followed, sidling towards the Inquisitor. She wrapped lazy arms around his torso, easing herself close to him. He slipped a leg between hers- not entirely expecting the soft gasp of pleasure that escaped her.

“I thought we were going to get some rest,” she said, laughing.

Cullen pressed a chaste kiss to her lips. “It was the intention,” he mused.

“I fear I won’t make a promising bedfellow tonight,” she said, squeezing her legs around his. Her eyes were drooping with fatigue.

“It’s been a trying day. I wouldn’t ask it of you,” he murmured. The embrace which followed spoke volumes of the relief he felt to have her in his arms. To know that she was alive- to affirm it with his senses. Maker, listening to her breathe was something he had taken for granted in the past. Now, it was everything.

"Gaerwyn?"

"Hmmm?"

"What if I got you sick? I'm sorry. I was just so-"

"If you got me sick, then you'll have to nurse me back to health," she murmured. "I'm not concerned."

He kissed her exposed neck, his efforts doubling when she tangled a hand into his hair. On countless occasions, particularly when saying their farewells, they were wont to leave love bites on the other. Needless to say the war councils after the Inquisitor's departure were riddled with innuendo. If Sera caught wind of their activities together, she was likely to draw more attention to it. Even when the two made every effort to remain discreet, the Red Jenny was more than capable of finding out or having one of her "friends" procure the intelligence she desired.

“Good night,” she whispered against his lips. Cullen responded with a gentle hum. Their exhaustion finally overwhelmed their senses, dragging the two down into the lulls of sleep.

\--

He awoke with a start. It was still dark outside, the morning having yet to shed its sable cloak. The only source of light was produced by the embers in the hearth, having burned down to seething sparks in a bed of ash. He inhaled slowly. He was in Skyhold. He was safe. He wasn't in Kinloch hold again. He would never return. He was no longer a Templar. Save for the few that followed him from Kirkwall, he had severed all ties with the Order. He was safe. Maker, why did the dream still haunt him? Why did those grotesque images pursue him, refuse him any form of respite? With a separation of ten years between then and now, the visions still managed to chase him down, biting viciously at his heels at every turn.

Gaerwyn stirred softly. She rolled over and placed one hand over his heart. "Bad dream?" she asked, her words slurred by sleep.

Cullen swallowed thickly. He managed to nod an affirmative. "Yes."

The mage forced her eyes open. "Do you want to talk about it?" she asked.

He sought out her hand, clasping it in both of his. "This is my burden. You already have the weight of the world on your shoulders."

She stroked the side of his face with her free hand, the gentle ministrations calming him, easing the tension from his muscles. "I'm here for you," she murmured gently. "You don't have to say anything if you don't want to, but you don't have to work through this alone. I just... want you to know that."

He nodded. For a drawn out stint of time, he contemplated informing her of everything. Baring his soul as it were. He glanced over to see she was blinking heavily with fatigue. Cullen squeezed her hand gently. "It was ten years ago. Sometimes it feels as if I'm back there. In the Ferelden Circle."

Gaerwyn's eyes came alight with understanding. Of course she knew. There was little doubt in his mind that the knowledge of what had transpired was common in the Circles acting as counterparts to Ferelden's mage tower.

He sat up slowly. "I was held captive for Maker only knows how long. I saw blood mages and abominations murder my friends and colleagues before my eyes. The images they forced into my head... they left me at the mercy of demons. I was the last one they kept alive, save for the Templars who were waiting on reinforcements so to invoke the Right of Annulment." She gasped quietly. Every Circle mage knew to fear what that entailed. "The Hero of Ferelden arrived beforehand. She saved what remained of us without invoking the Right. It was hardly a year after I had been fully inducted into the Order that this happened." The last part was spoken with a bitter laugh.

He expected her to draw away from him. He didn't think he was broken, but he did fear that Gaerwyn would argue otherwise. That she would pity him, perhaps even be repulsed by him. He didn't know why he thought this. Yet... she had never given him any reason to feel that way. 

"This doesn't change how I feel about you," she said, as if predicting what he was thinking. "I'm here for you."

He met her gaze, not finding pity or disgust but... comfort. Wordlessly, he pulled her into a loose embrace. He didn't want her to feel any obligation to stay like so, but took an abundant amount of comfort in when she slipped her arms around his neck and held him close. He promptly reciprocated. The two remained wrapped tightly in the other's arms for an unmarked time. In unspoken understanding, they curled back under the covers together. Sleep came for Cullen, but not easily. Gaerwyn's shallow breathing became his lullaby, and he drifted off into a dreamless slumber.

\--

Morning was a generally unpleasant time for Gaerwyn. She rarely enjoyed waking early, and often the sunlight pooling into her room was met with a burning contempt.

Yet, unlike the dawns where she was accustomed to waking alone, Gaerwyn’s mind resurfaced from her dreams with the expectation of being curled against the chest of her Commander. Upon waking to find her bed vacant of another, she bolted upright. Had he left sometime in the middle of the night? Had she chased him off? Maybe he was attending to his duties. Or maybe he had grown tired of the relationship. Their dalliance? Their relationship was so much more to her than that. The rain had ceased so perhaps he was drilling recruits—

“Ah, good morning,” he said. She swiveled her gaze towards the fireplace. Cullen stood in his loose tunic and trousers, setting small figurines onto the mantle.

“The room looks rather sparse without them, don’t you think?” he inquired as he placed a halla figurine adjacent to a small Dalish soldier. He smiled uncertainly, obviously having wanted his work to be a surprise.

She exhaled a sigh of relief. “Yes.”

“I hope you don’t mind. I found the box and I thought that I might—“ She was at his side then, plucking a toy Chevalier off of the mantle. “The Chevalier goes by the Antivan soldier,” she murmured. “Not the Fereldan Bann. I’m not heartless. The armor is dated to the Occupation, yes? That would be a rather crass thing.”

He turned to press a kiss to her lips. “You honestly put so much thought into this?”

“It matters!” she replied.

“Fair enough. Shall we put the Tevinter Magisters with the Paragons then?”

“No. They’re set near the Qunari.”

Silence.

“No. That’s ridiculous.”

\--

Varric enjoyed his mornings by the fireside. The great hall was gradually beginning to stir with signs of life, the servants moving to light the candles and stoke the hearth fires. The morning meal was being carried out on steaming silver platters with carafes of milk, freshly squeezed juice, and pots of tea following shortly after. Orlesian pastries gorged with fruit and drizzled with honey exuded a subtle, spiced scent. The fine, seasoned meats gave off a rustic aroma that attracted many guests- and became a favored fallback for visiting Fereldan nobility. Honestly, Josephine had ensured that the Inquisition did not skimp on meals.

The dwarf snatched up three slices of sweet bread for the Inquisitor, wrapping a linen serviette around the food. Gaerwyn was prone to waking ten minutes after Cullen started drilling recruits in the training yard. She would spend a half hour toiling to get ready before stumbling into the hall to dine with the dwarf, Hawke, and Dorian. After the incident in the pass though, Varric suspected that she wouldn’t be present for much –if any- of the meal. He might as well make sure she ate something of sustenance.

Hawke settled into the seat next to him, propping her legs over the arm of her chair and leaning back to read a book. She would glance up to say a word or two in passing, but otherwise remained immersed in whatever story was unfolding before her eyes.

Dorian staggered into the hall shortly after Hawke arrived, his well-groomed features unusually haggard. As Varric formed the words to ask why the Tevinter was in such an unkempt state, the mage cast a silencing glare across the table. He slumped into a chair and motioned a servant over.

“Whatever that sordid Fereldan meat is, I want that. A glass of brandy to wash it down,” he said to the young man.

“You doing alright, Sparkler?” Varric finally asked.

“My arms feel as if they’re made of lead,” he groaned. “Just kill me.”

“Don’t be so hasty,” Varric said, grinning over his water glass.

The hall was still sparsely populated. Visiting aristocracy was trickling in through the main entrance, most of whom were the ones prone to rising with the dawn and capable of returning to their chambers at the most ungodly hours. No doubt behind the masks and layers of foundation were tired eyes and lined faces.

“Where’s Gaerwyn?” Dorian asked.

“Still asleep, most like—“ In the near distance, the three could hear loud yelling ensue. They glanced towards the Inquisitor’s quarters. While faint at first, the shouting was gradually increasing in volume.

“Absolutely not!”

“The Qunari make sense, Cullen! Between the Tevinter soldier and the Rivaini pirate!” Gaerwyn’s voice argued.

“And the Paragons don’t? Archon Darinius allied with the dwarves,” Cullen’s voice returned.

It was notable at this point to mention that the entire hall had fallen deathly quiet.

“Yet the outfits of the Magisters clearly emulates the garb worn in the Storm Age! When Qunari invaded!” Gaerwyn shouted. “How can you not know this?”

“Do you honestly think I read books on Tevinter garb when I was stationed at the Circle? What sort of politics are even involved with clothing?” Cullen’s exasperation was mounting.

“You don’t even know. Are you not even aware of the politics involved in the Imperium?”

“All I’m saying is that you should put Archon Darinius with the other Magisters.”

“Well, you’re wrong. He will stay right there! Don’t move him! Don’t put him by Paragon Aeducan! They’re from two different time periods!”

Quiet fell. As if the two were contemplating where to go from that point.

“Are they seriously arguing over clothing?” Varric asked, perhaps somewhat taken aback but not entirely surprised.

“It does matter in the Imperium,” Dorian admitted, spearing a chunk of meat on his fork, the juice pooling out was a light pink color.

“Alright,” Cullen ceded. “You should put Maferath next to Andraste though—“

“That’s where Havard and Shartan go,” Gaerwyn retorted.

Though the argument was spawning from Gaerwyn’s bedroom, the very air in the hall was saturated with discomfort. All the same, when Hawke broke into a fit of howling laughter, the nobles were prompt to follow.

Seeing as the entire keep was now aware that the two had spent the night together, there was little point in trying to masquerade the fact by entering the hall separately. The door to Gaerwyn’s chambers swung open, and the mage stepped out with an exaggerated swagger. The Commander followed after… notably wearing different trousers than the pair from last night. His hair was mussed, which suggested that last night was certainly... eventful. As Varric recalled, he had ducked into the hall via the rotunda and made for the Inquisitor’s quarters. He, having occupied his usual place by the fireside, watched with mild interest.

To add insult to injury, the Commander was certainly not in clothes considered befitting of his rank. Him without his surcoat and suit of armor was like a lion without a mane. While he may look fierce, there was a loss in prowess. That was, at least, until Cullen cast a smoldering glare upon the first noble that dare breathe the beginnings of a rumor.

“Commander!” Lady Montilyet exclaimed, her voice tightening in an effort to maintain a visibly pleasant demeanor. “Inquisitor. Would you please step into my office?”

Gaerwyn and Cullen shared a disconcerted glance prior to following the Ambassador through the side door. There was little doubt in Varric’s mind that Josephine would be unfurling a magnificent lecture for the two lovers unlike any ever seen. Yet, unlike their heated argument, Josephine was more than capable at relaying what sort of fools they had made of themselves before honored guests.

“Well, that is quite shocking… if not refreshing,” Varric overheard one noblewoman say to the man sitting adjacent to her. “I won’t lie. It’s hard to see the Inquisitor as nothing more than a symbol. To see that she stumbled out of her bedroom with lover in tow… Maker, she’s just as much a person as anyone else!”

The individuals surrounding the speaker murmured in resonating agreement. Only a few actually looked on with disapproval- the few that Leliana’s scouts had likely taken account of and would be watching carefully from that point thereon.

“Should we tell Josephine?” Dorian asked.

“You really think it’d make a difference?”

“Point taken.”

Gaerwyn was the first to leave the Lady Ambassador’s office, head held high and gaze unflinching. She was greeted by Dorian first, who showed enough decorum to not hug the Inquisitor in public. What with her being seen with the Commander, she would be accused of having multiple paramours if he opted to show any form of affection- as platonic as it may be.

As Gaerwyn made for the doors of the Great Hall, Varric palmed the wrapped bread into her hand. She smiled at him, whispering a word of thanks.

Cullen was released a full twenty minutes after Gaerwyn. Unlike with the Inquisitor though, he was followed out of the Hall by poorly concealed giggles and lewd words. He didn’t blanch from his determined route, though the blush painting his cheeks was obvious.

Varric had assumed the two would be more discreet about their relationship after being thoroughly dressed down by Josephine.

That is… until he happened to glance up to the battlements later that evening to see a particular Commander in tender embrace with the Inquisitor- making little secret of what form of relationship they shared. That, Varric thought to himself, was something worthy of a novel.

\--

The pass was cleared of rubble and debris in a week’s time. Overhead, the sky was clear of clouds and bleached a warm turquoise by the sun. In a word, the weather was ideal for travel.

Once again, the Inquisitor readied her mount. She secured her saddle while crooning words of comfort to her horse- the creature still being shaken from their previous escapade into the pass.

“Inquisitor,” a familiar, and welcome, voice said from behind her.

She turned, one hand steadied on her horse’s neck. Cullen stood a few paces away with his officer waiting close by.

“Here to see us off, Commander?” she asked, her voice falling into a dulcet purr.

“More so to make sure you don’t fall off your horse while trying to mount it,” he said, a wry smile curving his lips.

“You’re so good to me.” She laughed. As Cullen placed two firm hands over her waist, he leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to her mouth.

“Stay safe,” he said, biting her lower lip.

“My dear Commander, in public of all places?” She stifled a squeal against her hand when he moved to cup her bottom.

“I fear I’m already dreading your departure,” he said. Without another word, he effortlessly lifted her onto her mount’s polished saddle.

“Shall I anticipate a warm homecoming then?” she asked, her intonations laced with sensuality.

“I can assure you that your bed will be kept warm in your absence,” he said. “I shall turn it over to you on your return.”

The Inquisitor feigned falling off of her horse and into the Commander’s waiting arms. He was fast to catch her and even faster to bury his lips into her hair. His officer cleared his throat loudly, only to have Cullen dismiss the man with a jerky gesture.

“Use my quarters if it rains,” she said. “Or if the weather turns unbearable. Or…”

He cupped her face in his hands. “I will,” he promised. “Would you be willing to grant me an audience on your return, your worship?”

“Need you ask?”

“Well, it might be rather late… I may request that our audience be extended into the early hours of the morning.”

“Promises, promises,” she said with a sigh. “Don’t rearrange my figurines.” The warning was playful, as if daring him to do so.

“What would my Inquisitor do to me if I went against her wishes?” He had lowered his voice to a rough husk, so only she could hear him, and only she could be affected by how he said it.

“I’ll have to think of something suitable,” she replied, tilting her head to the side.

“I may be tempted to do so then.” Cullen kissed her lightly. They had already said their farewells earlier that day, yet the temptation to steal one or two more tender caresses was overbearing.

After pulling back, Gaerwyn removed her scarf from around her neck and proceeded to loop it around Cullen’s neck.

“Take care of this for me?” she asked.

“Of course.” He lifted her up once again, pressing one hand over her saddlebag to ensure that it was secure. After brushing one final kiss over her knuckles, he bade her farewell. There was no use in overlooking the anxiety rising in his chest as he watched her company disappear into the pass. He had overseen the entirety of the repairs to the mountain road, perhaps being a tad insistent on ensuring that an incident of that magnitude never be repeated. The abject terror that his Inquisitor might be trapped beneath tons of rubble once more, without the ability to escape, still lingered in the back of his thoughts.

He would have accompanied her through the pass, if not for Josephine having made it adamantly clear that the sequential gossip may prove problematic. Whatever rumor-mongering there was hardly compared to him stumbling out of her quarters shoddily dressed, he argued. His efforts were fruitless in the end. The Lady Ambassador was unrelenting in her demands. It was little wonder why she had been chosen to stand as the Inquisition's diplomat.

For now, Cullen would have to rely upon his soldiers to inform him of the Inquisitor’s passage through the mountains. As he made for his office, he lifted up a silent prayer for Gaerwyn to be guided safely to her destination and home once again.

An hour of tedious paperwork passed in excruciating silence. The light provided by the hole in his ceiling was abruptly blotted out as a raven dived down and perched atop a pile of books nearby. Cullen approached the bird, who lifted up one leg to reveal the missive attached. This messenger was kinder than others, not pecking at his hand or flying to the top of a shelf when Cullen reached. He retrieved the message with little struggle.

_Cullen,_

_We made it safely out the pass. Save for Hawke falling off her horse, we’re uninjured. I’ll send word once we reach Val Royeaux to replenish supplies._

_Also: thank you for the cookies. How did you manage to stow that parcel into my saddlebag?_

_Take care of yourself, dear heart._

_Yours,_  
_Gaerwyn_

_P.S. I’m not supposed to write anything that is even slightly indicative of the nature of our relationship. I’ll leave it at this: I’ll miss you… and your hands._

Cullen couldn’t resist the impulse to smile. He felt the tension fall away from his shoulders as he stood there, rereading her letter. The raven had already flown off by the time the Commander bothered to look up, only leaving a few sooty feathers in its wake.

As he was wont to do with every letter he received from Gaerwyn, he set the missive into the small box he stored in his desk. Atop the bundle of papers within were sprigs of elfroot and lavender- sprays that he had picked. One or two had been twined into his hair by Gaerwyn during various trysts in the garden. He took in the smell, letting the nostalgia of the memory overwhelm him.

\--

He slipped into the Inquisitor’s quarters later that night, his path illuminated by the candle in his hand. Gaerwyn’s rooms were eerily quiet without her there. There was no fire in the hearth, nor was there a tea kettle whistling over the fire or potatoes baking in the embers.

As he proceeded to undress, Cullen looked to the mantle over the fireplace. He finished disrobing, leaving his clothing in a pile next to the bed. For once, he wasn’t concerned over the decorum expected of him. With a soft laugh, the Commander plucked up the Paragon Aeducan and set it squarely between a Qunari and Tevinter figurine.

He was certainly looking forward to when the Inquisitor returned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter. THIS. CHAPTER. It was a challenge to write, but I did it!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	27. Sand in an Hourglass (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke receives a letter from Anders. Cullen gives in to his growing urges for Gaerwyn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so so so sorry for taking so long to update. My classes are all based in reading text and writing essays. Which doesn't give me a lot of space to work on my own writing. On top of that, I wasn't certain if I was happy with the quality of this chapter and have been editing and rewriting certain parts, when time permitted. I am hoping to post the second half of this chapter next week. That one will be edited quite a bit before I actually post it here, since I feel like it isn't quite up to snuff yet.
> 
> I promise you, I am not abandoning this story. I am proud of what I have written, and I want to keep writing this fic.
> 
> Thank you so much for your patience. Thank you for sticking with me for so long. And thank you so, so much for reading!
> 
>  **NSFW** : This chapter does contain some sexual content.

The Western Approach was a massive expanse of desert that overlooked the gaping maw of the Abyssal Rift- a large chasm that purportedly had been the source of Darkspawn during the Second Blight.

Sand swirled in lazy motes on the wind. Heat waves shimmered on the stinging blue of the horizon. Every few minutes Gaerwyn would take a small drink from the water skin slung over her shoulder. While she may have longed for the cool tang of a mountain spring, she was greeted with the musky aftertaste of leather and an oddly fuzzy texture that begged the question: “What’s living in this skin?” All the same, she had figured it was best to bite back her complaints upon greeting the scouts at the Craggy Ridge Camp.

The scouts displayed a variation of burns and tans on their flesh. The head of the camp was a seared red, much like a cooked lobster. The skin on her nose was peeling away to reveal a shinier crimson beneath, while her sleeves allowed for a distinct juxtaposition of red where the sun touched, and pearly white where it remained unmarred. She was grateful for the balm that the Inquisitor was able to provide her with, even going so far as to break rank and embrace Gaerwyn. Not that Gaerwyn particularly minded. She had come to prefer casual relationships to the formalities of a military organization.

Whereas two of the scouts who performed sweeps of the general vicinity and reported back had adapted a notably almond color. They happily joked between each other about their fortune. Notably, though, they managed to procure a few tarps to drape over camp so that their commanding officer would not take sick due to the sun’s harsh rays.

“We’ve covered enough ground for the day to justify turning in early,” Gaerwyn said. The sun was cresting over the sloping dunes in the far off distance, heralding forth the night that was soon to follow.

“I couldn’t agree more,” Hawke said. She shrugged off her pack with little ceremony in her actions. It landed behind her, sending up dusty plumes of gold in its wake.

“Inquisitor, you and Serah Hawke received letters,” one scout informed them. “One is marked with Commander Cullen’s sigil, whereas the other is marked with a scale, I believe.”

“Ah, I know who it’s from,” Hawke said quickly. She plucked the letter from his hand and wandered a ways from the camp.

“Looks like Blondie got in touch,” Varric said in a low whisper.

“Is that bad?” Gaerwyn asked. She glanced over her shoulder to see the Seeker busying herself with writing a report. There was little doubt she had heard, but she was polite enough to pretend her attentions were elsewhere.

“The two separated when the Mage Rebellion was at its most violent,” the dwarf said. “Hawke never really went into how their final discussion played out, but from what little she said, it sounds like it ended in a nasty argument. She’s been trying to find him since. Apologize.” Varric shrugged. “That’s why she was downright horrified when she heard you and Curly had a spat. I swear, if you two hadn’t made up when you did, you both would have been corralled into the garden and serenaded by as many minstrels she could find.”

“Fortunately, we only have two in Skyhold,” Gaerwyn said with a soft smile.

Varric chuckled. “Don’t put it past her to commission an entire entourage from Val Royeaux. Really. Don’t.”

She fought to suppress her laughter. There was little point in denying that she was permitting her mind to wander more than usual. Often to the lingering evenings she spent with Cullen or small little facets of the man that she had grown to adore. His shy smiles that would turn mischievous and downright flirtatious. The way he would discreetly ghost his hand over hers while in war meetings, or tenderly touch her shoulder or waist while in public. All of which were gestures often written off as platonic by their observers… unless those observers happened to be Bull or Sera. In which case those little caresses were met with loud whooping and hailing for a casket of wine to be broken.

The love bites peppered over her neck and breasts had faded over the weeks taken to reach the Approach. Even then, she still coveted the memories of that night from so many weeks ago. Still grappled to remember how his lips felt on her body.

As Gaerwyn wedged her finger under the fold of the envelope to break the seal, Hawke barreled past her. She flew into one of the tents without a word spared for the Inquisitor.

“Hawke?” Varric called after the Champion. No response. He approached the tent and entered with an anticlimactic response.

The anguish in Claudia’s voice was gut wrenching.

“What happened?” Cassandra asked the Inquisitor, her report long since abandoned.

“I’m not certain,” Gaerwyn replied. She glanced down at the partially opened missive in her hand. It suddenly seemed grossly inappropriate to concern herself with her own romantic affairs when Hawke was in such a state of grief.

\--

“Evening, Commander!” Bull called from his corner of the tavern. “Come take a load off.”

Cullen approached, one hand gripping a tankard of ale.

“Any word from the Inquisitor?” Bull inquired. “I bet she’ll catch sight of a dragon any day now.”

“Not since the letter sent from Val Royeaux,” he replied.

“You worried about her?” Bull raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

Cullen shook his head in response. “Not in the sense you’d think. I know Gaerwyn is capable. I just… wish there was more I could do.”

“Thinking of taking the field?” the Qunari asked.

“I doubt that I’d have reason to. If she needs me, I’ll be here.” He took a drink from his tankard.

Iron Bull tipped his head back and laughed. “Never thought I’d be sitting here talking about the boss with you!”

“I do prefer to keep my personal affairs exactly that. Personal.” He found himself surprisingly at ease when speaking to the Ben-Hassrath. Probably due to Bull’s training, he was more receptive to others than most.

Bull leaned forward, his voice dropping into a curious husk. “So… how’s the boss in bed?”

He nearly choked on his drink. “W-what? Where did that come from?”

“You still haven’t had sex?” For once, Bull seemed floored. “Shit, Cullen. So all those nights of sneaking into her quarters, and what? You two just chat?”

He could feel his cheeks burning. That perceived sense of comfort around this Ben-Hassrath was dissolving at a disturbing rate. Granted, he and Gaerwyn were intimate, neither had made the move to go any further than the night after the incident in the mountain pass. She was still recovering, and he was often working.

That wasn’t to say they didn’t see each other often. Many evenings were spent in the other’s embrace. Some of these times were spent reading or talking, others… others were spent by displaying more liberality in their affections. Memories of him easing a book out of her pliable fingers and taking her into his lap sprung to mind. How she may kiss him in the midst of a conversation on the jaw, and how he, in turn, would pepper her neck and mouth with affections of an identical variety.

They could converse at length and engage in all matters of hobbies together. Sex… sex hadn’t been dismissed as a possibility. It just had never been discussed. But then… Cullen couldn’t dismiss what had happened that night as not being sexual. He honestly dreaded asking Bull what he thought in the matter. 

While the Commander felt no need to rush the progress of his relationship with Gaerwyn, there was always something getting in the way of the two going any further.

The Inquisitor’s injuries from the pass.

Early morning training sessions.

Continuously growing piles of paperwork.

Meetings with dignitaries that could –and did- manage to rob the two of stamina that could be spent in far more appealing ways and at significantly louder volumes.

“Don’t drift off on me now,” Bull said, nudging Cullen’s shoulder. The Commander returned to the present.

“No. We have not,” he said. He had feared her reaction when he told her of his time in Ferelden and then in Kirkwall. That fear alone was enough to give him pause. Yet she still accepted him. Still cared for his wellbeing. The only thing that had managed to change since was a deep, caring glimmer of understanding embedded in the glances she cast his way.

If anything, since that night they had shared in her quarters, she had grown all the more liberal in her affections. She had taken to straddling his lap while in his office and catching his mouth in searing hot kisses. His reports in war meetings may be abruptly cut short when he glanced up to see her watching him with a knowing smirk. Of course, her attentions were more than wanted by him. He had managed on a multiple occasions to pull her away for a few minutes. Sometimes into the pantry for a kiss, other times into the library for a brief chat. They would exchange favorite books before parting ways.

“That’s pretty surprising,” Bull admitted. “How long have you two been an item now?”

“Honestly, I haven’t kept track,” Cullen replied. “Why are you so interested?”

Bull leaned in, a sly grin curling over his features. “She talks in her sleep, you know.”

“Yes, Bull, I’m aware,” Cullen groused. He rarely broached the topic of what her dreams entailed. Sometimes he would wake in the middle of the night to feel her having gone rigid at his side, teeth clenched in a snarl. Her whispering angrily to the specters of her dreams… sometimes crying. She was quick to wake when he called to her, and all the faster in dispensing an apology.

“Sometimes she talks to you in her sleep,” the Qunari continued unperturbed. “Thought you’d like to know that her good dreams involve you.”

The Commander’s cheeks were tinted a light pink. He reached to scratch the back of his neck.

“What does she say?” he finally asked.

“Oh? Now you’re interested?”

Swift footsteps approached the nook of the tavern that the two currently occupied. Sera leapt over a table and landed on a barrel stationed adjacent to where Cullen now sat. Without hesitation, Bull proffered a bottle of wine and handed it to the Red Jenny.

“You didn’t wait for me, ya arse biscuit!” she snapped at him before downing three gulps of alcohol.

“You’re here now,” Bull returned.

“She had this one dream, yeah, where you an’ her were doing something really dirty!” Sera cackled.

“W-what?”

Bull leaned in and whispered the details that they could extract from Gaerwyn’s sleep-speak. Upon sitting back in his seat, Bull saw that the Commander was blushing a deep red.

“Why do you listen in on her when she sleeps?” he sputtered.

“We were both on watch for that one!” Sera returned gleefully.

Cullen slumped forward in his seat, his embarrassment more than apparent. He was flattered, certainly, but there was a defined difference in him hearing her muse on in her sleep and these two listening in.

“I should… I have paperwork to finish,” the Commander said. He departed from the tavern without another word, at least from him. Sera took no shame in whooping and stomping the ground to make her point.

…Upon reaching his office he bolted all three doors. He glanced over at the never ending pile of work on his desk before promptly ascending the ladder to his private quarters. He tried not to give much thought to what those two had to say. They were always rattling on about something or another. Cullen storming off like he had would only add fuel to their onslaught of lewd comments.

His trousers were oddly tight, he realized, only to release an audible string of profanities upon recognizing the source of his growing discomfort. Regardless of what had actually happened, what had actually been said, he couldn’t dismiss his arousal so easily.

With a sigh of irritation, he undid the ties of his trousers and took himself in hand. He recalled the way her moans would hitch with soft breaths the closer she was to reaching orgasm. How pleasuring her pearl left her a shuddering mess of nerves. Images of her straddling his lap came to mind, and morphed to that of her rolling her hips sensuously against him and slowly taking his member inside her, him circling her clit with his thumb. He recalled how her quim clenched around his fingers, and nearly spent himself when imagining how that sensation would feel around his—

“Commander!” A scout was at the door. “Sister Leliana has a report she wished for you to sign off on.”

“I’ll be there momentarily,” he said with a muffled groan of irritation.

“Ser… your door is locked.”

“Just a moment!” He bit down on his lip to avoid lewdly moaning. Even with the pressing of the scout outside, he found his mind wandering back to his fantasy. Maker, she had been so wet when he touched her. Utterly soaking. His cock twitched in his hold.

“Ser?” The scout sounded uncertain now. Cullen couldn’t risk answering without his activities being discovered outright. He was supposed to be an authoritative figure of the Inquisition to these soldiers. Him caving to his desires would be akin to showing weakness. He wasn’t supposed to experience any bodily want. He was a pillar of justness, not a being of carnal longing.

A heat was building against his pelvis as he came closer to his release. He heard her crying out his name as he stroked her, her pleasure peaking. With a firm squeeze of his shaft, Cullen came. His anxieties and frustrations melted away in that one moment of bliss. He didn’t realize he had been holding his breath until he gasped out a haggard groan of pleasure, Gaerwyn’s name slipping past his lips like silk.

“Ser, are you feeling well?” Damn it. Cullen was hardly presentable.

“One moment,” he repeated. He had enough time to tuck his cock into his pants and to cinch the ties once more.

He descended the ladder to his office, internally grousing during the entirety of his small journey.

He unbolted the door before opening it a fraction and snatching the report from the scout. “Sister Leliana will receive my response in the morning,” he said. “Thank you for your patience. Dismissed.”

The scout departed without another word. If the poor messenger had heard the final note of Cullen’s ministrations, there was no doubt he knew exactly what had occurred in the confines of the Commander’s quarters.

\--

Hawke had remained holed up in the tent for three hours now. Gaerwyn and Cassandra sat by the fireside, being close enough to offer comfort but adequately distanced so not to be smothering. Only Varric had been able to extract a coherent sentence from the woman, and he refused to inform the others of what had been said. From the way his shoulders slumped though when he let the tent flap fall back into place, Gaerwyn gathered it wasn’t good news.

“If you want to go in there, Lightning, be my guest,” Varric said gruffly. “Don’t expect an answer from her though.”

Gaerwyn supposed that was Varric’s way of saying not to push Hawke- which she had no intention of doing.

She entered the tent, ready for whatever… except Hawke’s tear-washed face. She was laying on her side, the letter clenched in one fist.

“May I sit with you?” Gaerwyn asked. Claudia nodded.

She settled onto the cot that currently held the Champion, her gaze set forward. She didn’t have to know what was wrong. She simply could be a comforting presence. Varric was possibly the better choice in that respect, and he would likely return in a few minutes, relieving her of a duty she was incapable of fulfilling.

“He ended it,” Hawke said finally, her voice pained.

Gaerwyn looked to the woman for explanation.

“Anders,” was the one word said for clarification.

“Ah.”

Claudia shoved the letter into Gaerwyn’s hand. “He said that it was time for me to move on. That we didn’t have a future together. He said he loved me still but… Justice. Fucking Justice.” She rose to her feet and walked the length of the tent. “Of course Justice has to interfere. He and Anders were just so… so intertwined. They were the same person. I didn’t think that would matter. I thought in the end… in the end, the fact that I loved him would be what counted.” She hiccupped. 

The air around the Champion was cloyed with the scent of electricity.

“Our last conversation ended in an argument,” she said, sniffling loudly. “He wanted to keep fighting in the rebellion. I… I said that he was putting himself in danger, that it would be better to lie low, maybe go find Isabela. He said no. He refused to abandon his cause. What he viewed as justice. He isn’t even looking for justice now. He’s Vengeance. And Vengeance is cruel, biased, and destructive.”

“Hawke…”

The Champion sat down heavily next to Gaerwyn. “He didn’t tell me he was going to destroy the Chantry,” she whispered. “I helped him acquire the components. I’m as guilty as he is.”

“You didn’t know…”

“He lied to me!” Hawke cried. “And I didn’t have the forethought to question his intentions. I followed… blindly. I... I am equally responsible.”

“No—“

“Gaerwyn, I thought he was going to separate himself from Justice. I lived with him for three years, and knew him for so much longer. How could I not see that this ritual he was describing simply wasn’t possible?” She was hyperventilating at this point. “No… it was possible. But that he wouldn’t conduct it? I’m a mage. I’ve studied what resources I had. Why couldn’t I see it?”

“Hawke, breathe slowly. Please.”

Varric reappeared in the tent, carrying a tankard of water. The desert left everyone perpetually parched, but Hawke’s crying would leave her more susceptible to dehydration when came morning.

“Was I not good enough?” she asked softly. “What could I do to fix it? I’ve helped people, haven’t I? So why can’t I fix this?”

Wordlessly, Gaerwyn pulled the Champion into her arms and held her there. Claudia gripped onto the Inquisitor as if the Void threatened to take her. Her breathing was wrenched with loud sobs that periodically subsided only to increase in volume shortly afterwards. Gaerwyn could feel Hawke shatter in her embrace, and prayed that she would be able to hold those shards together.

“I’m sorry,” Claudia sniffed. “I’m sorry that you have to see me like this. T-this is my pain. N-not yours.”

“Hawke,” Varric stirred. “We’re your friends. That’s what we’re here for.”

She nodded.

“Can I see what he wrote?” Varric asked.

Gaerwyn pressed the crumpled lump of paper into his hand and took the tankard which he offered. She gave it to Hawke, who drank down the contents in heaving gulps, the water coursing down her chin and pooling over her front in a gradually increasing stain. Hawke fell asleep a few minutes after with her head resting in Gaerwyn’s lap. She was apprehensive in asking for comfort, but managed, all the same.

“What did the letter say?” the Inquisitor asked in a hushed tone. She brushed a lock of hair from Claudia’s face, revealing the tear-stained façade beneath.

“He… wants her to move on,” Varric said softly. “Says he loves her but… they don’t have a future. He thanked her for having such faith in him and apologized for how things ended. He says that while he will continue to fight for mages, so that they can live in a world where people like him and Hawke can marry and have children, he can’t have that with her.”

Gaerwyn glanced down to the slumbering Claudia.

“She loved him. Even after he lied to her. Frankly… I think she’s too good for him. She doesn’t see it though,” Varric said with a bitter chuckle. 

“Will she be alright?”

“Hawke has been through enough as it is,” Varric said. “Sure, she’ll be fine, but she deserves more than just managing to scrape by.”

He helped Gaerwyn ease Hawke under the blankets set aside for her. She muttered in her sleep but otherwise remained quiet.

“If you want to go read your letter, I can keep an eye on her for a bit,” Varric said. “I don’t want to be too far off if she needs something.”

Gaerwyn nodded her understanding. She departed from the tent to see Cassandra and Dorian sitting by the fireside. They spoke in hushed whispers, making every honest attempt at small talk.

After sitting down beside Dorian, Gaerwyn withdrew the letter from her pocket. She could only pray that the news which the missive conveyed was optimistic in comparison to the going-ons in camp.

With the seal broken, she read.

_Gaerwyn:_

_It seems like ages since we last spoke. Hang propriety and hang the etiquette of written social graces. I miss you. I can’t stop thinking about that night we spent together after the pass. Is that too forward? Do you also think of the time we… spent together?_

_Skyhold is far too quiet without your laughter ringing through the halls. I know you’re doing valuable work, but still, I miss you. I’ve taken to using your quarters when it rains and when the nights are cold. I realize that you gave me permission to do so, but if that has changed, please let me know. I will cease immediately._

_Also: I finished the book you lent me. I fear that I don’t quite understand why they didn’t just fly the eagles to the mountain. Of course, I did enjoy it. You’ll be pleased to know that Sera called me an ‘arse-biscuit’ for trying to argue the logic present. She clearly knows something I don’t about this novel. You mentioned a prequel, yes? I’d rather like to read it so I may argue the questionable logic with you upon your return._

_I wish I had anything of relevance to say in this missive. I began writing with no idea of what to say and, well, I’m certain that shows. I just wanted to bridge this blasted silence._

_Stay safe. Or as safe as you can._

_Yours,  
Cullen_

_P.S. I moved one of your figurines. I pray I have given you enough forewarning so that you may think of how to suitably discipline me upon your return._

Gaerwyn bit her lip to refrain from smiling. She was hit by a wave of guilt for having indulged in her relationship with Cullen then when Hawke had experienced such heartbreak so recently. From what Varric had said, she knew that the Champion was exultant. All the same, there was no harm in writing a reply to the Commander. She had to send a report back within the next three days as it was.

She wrote the report first, so to not neglect her obligations. The letter followed shortly after, Gaerwyn leaning over her writing space in hopes that her companions would not be able to spy the contents of her response.

There was a brief interim between her completing the letter and applying the sealing wax where Gaerwyn questioned if her letter was too descriptive. There was always the threat that Inquisition would be intercepted, but honestly, what would the enemy learn? The Inquisitor enjoyed flirting with her Commander? She inwardly cringed. What was she risking with the letter? Honey sweet words that would goad on a bard’s dagger? Blackmail? 

Gaerwyn wordlessly stuffed the letter into her coat pocket. She returned to the tent where Hawke currently lay slumbering. Varric sat nearby, a book open on his lap.

“You turning in for the night?” he asked.

The Inquisitor nodded. 

“How are things back in Skyhold?” he pressed.

“From the letter I received, I would say things are well enough,” she replied.

Varric smirked. “What are you hiding?”

“Nothing. I just wrote a letter that I need to reconsider.”

“Oh?” His smirk was taking on some concerning lewd undertones.

“What do you want me to say exactly? My relationship isn’t a very well-kept secret, but outside of Skyhold that relationship is nothing more than a rumor. I’ve already been accused of being involved with Josephine, Leliana, Hawke, and you, for that matter,” Gaerwyn said in a bluster.

“What did Curly have to say?”

Gaerwyn fell quiet. “He misses me,” she murmured. “It’s strange. Even after all these months of exchanging letters, I never thought anyone would want me. What with me being sent to the Circle so young, I just assumed I had done something wrong and was being punished for it. That people went there when they were no longer wanted by their families. I… thought my parents were punishing me for ruining Aunt Lucille’s gala.”

The dwarf quirked an eyebrow. “Didn’t they write to you? Didn’t they say they missed you?”

“No. A handful of letters were exchanged, but I think they believed that maintaining a regular correspondence with me would make the separation more painful. They stopped writing entirely after I was made Tranquil. Actually… that’s false. They sent a letter to inform me that my brother had died, and requested that I not attend the funeral,” she said.

Varric closed his book, the spine crackling as it flexed shut. “That’s… shit. How does it feel when he says that then?”

Gaerwyn felt burning manifest behind her eyes, and her throat constricted. “Like I belong somewhere. That when I return, I’ll be wanted.”

“And?”

“It feels nice.” She inhaled slowly.

Varric smiled that infuriatingly knowing smile of his. “Good,” he said. “You sure you want to hold off writing him back though? I doubt we’ll make camp before nightfall tomorrow.”

“I…”

“Nightingale’s birds are the best type. I doubt that anyone could intercept ‘em. Even if someone did, do you know what sort of measures her scouts on the ground take? The intricacy of the system is fucking terrifying,” Varric said. “Give me the letter. I’ll put it with the other reports.”

Gaerwyn sighed but acquiesced and withdrew the missive from her pocket. She was already concerned that Leliana read her messages to Cullen. What was one more pair of eyes if Varric decided to join her growing audience?

He bid her a good evening and departed. Not but mere moments after, he broke the wax seal on the envelope. Instead of withdrawing the parchment stowed within, Varric paused to scrawl out and deposit two pages with Gaerwyn’s original missive. After which he promptly resealed the letter and deposited it with the reports, as promised.

\--

_Curly,_

_The Western Approach is awful. I have sand in places where sand should never be. I’m beginning to understand what dwarves from Orzammar mean when they come up here._

_Hawke wanted me to attach this portrait she sketched. I guess she was too embarrassed to give it to Lightning. Of course, even if she had, I don’t see Lightning sending it your way. She’s a bit too modest for her own good._

_Also: if you could get Dagna to send some oil over, that’d be great. Bianca’s gears are beginning to grind together._

_-Varric_

Cullen removed a folded page that, according to the marred edge, had been torn from a journal. He opened it to see Gaerwyn’s likeness staring up at him. Her charcoal image was smiling over a book, though he noticed how the sketch had only vaguely touched upon the Sunburst brand seared into her brow. Hawke had paid a great deal of attention to the Inquisitor’s eyes instead, pouring her attention into capturing the fine facets of her irises and the vague lines that appeared when her face was warmed by a smile. She was so beautiful.

The Commander sighed as he slumped into his seat. He unfolded the second piece of parchment to find Gaerwyn’s letter.

_Cullen:_

_Why, propriety is the thing we must cleave to with our very dying breaths, is it not? That propriety would demand that a lady, especially a lady who also happens to be the Inquisitor, not inform her dear Commander of how often that night has occupied her thoughts. How she frequently returns to that evening to remember how he felt against her? How he made her feel so ~~wanted~~ ~~infinite~~ at peace? How he continues to do so? How she prays that she can do the same for him?_

_I miss you. That hasn’t changed. Please continue to use my quarters. I made the offer, and I stand by what I said._

_I am glad you enjoyed the book. It is, by far, one of my favorites, and I will happily argue the semantics with you. You won’t win, of course, but I will humor you. The prequel is on my bookshelf. Feel free to read it… so long as it makes it back to my quarters in all eventuality._

_As for bridging the silence, I’m glad you did. I’m sorry for not writing sooner. The moment we set foot into the desert, my company and I were assailed by darkspawn and other various wildlife. On a side, completely unrelated, rhetorical note: do you think the stables has room enough for a gurn? If not for a gurn, what about a quillback? Completely unrelated and entirely rhetorical, I promise._

_You didn’t even wait a day after I left to move one of my figurines, did you? We will have to discuss a suitable recourse for your actions upon my return. I do hope you reflect upon your thoughtless misdeeds while I am away._

_This constant, sweltering heat makes me miss the gardens and our evening walks. I fully intend to liberate you from your paperwork upon my return and drag you into the gardens with me._

_Yours,  
Gaerwyn_

Cullen didn’t waste any time in making the brief journey to the gardens and picking a small bouquet of lavender, rosemary, and dawn lotus. He wasn’t quite sure yet how he would send it to her without the blooms being crushed in the process, but he was certain he would figure out something.

“Hey, Cully-Wully!” Sera shouted at him. He glanced up to see the elf grinning down on him from the small balcony overlook above. In one quick bound, she hopped over the waist-high wall and slid down the tiled roof. The Red Jenny landed lightly on her feet, stirring up leaves and all matter of plants in her wake.

“Sera,” he responded curtly. He didn’t know what to make of the young woman. He knew Gaerwyn enjoyed her company, but had yet to figure out why. “Is there something you need?”

Sera propped her hands on her hips, canting her stance to one side. “Lighten up, would ya?” she said with a snort. “Just wanted to know how you were holdin’ up is all.”

“Why so?” he inquired, returning his attentions to picking flowers. Sera joined, snapping the stems with an odd amount of daintiness.

“Quizzy likes you. Bull wasn’t kidding when he said we heard her dream mutterin’. Don’t care what she was dreamin’ about. That’s her business. I just want to make sure that you’re alright. For her, I mean.”

“Even after sending me that cake laced with purgatives?” he asked dryly.

Sera broke out into a fit of lewd giggles. “That was good, yeah? Let me know if there’s anything that my friends an’ I can help with.” 

The Commander nodded, though he couldn’t think of anything that may require the Red Jenny’s help. So when he was deeply immersed in his work that night, pausing every half hour or so to make steady progress in composing a reply to Gaerwyn’s letter, he didn’t notice the tray of food waiting on one corner of his desk. He could only pray that the stew hadn’t received additional seasoning.

\--

Gaerwyn glanced over to the crest of sand. Hawke and Stroud sat together, speaking in hushed tones about one topic or another.

“How does Hawke know Stroud?” Gaerwyn asked Varric.

“He saved her brother. Made him into a Warden after he came into contact with the taint of a Darkspawn,” Varric said. “From what little she’s told me, I guess she and Stroud maintained a correspondence for years after. They’re pretty close actually.”

She watched as Hawke eased herself all the closer to Stroud and rested her head against his shoulder. The Grey Warden encircled an arm around the Champion’s waist, but maintained a rigid posture.

Gaerwyn’s mouth twisted into a disapproving grimace. Not even a week after receiving Ander’s parting words to her, and she was seeking romantic intimacy with another. Had she even given herself an appropriate amount of time to heal? To accept the end of her relationship?

“She’s an adult, Lightning,” Varric said. “Let her make her own decisions.”

“I just don’t want her to fall into a situation where Stroud is just there to—“

“Stroud is an adult, Lightning,” Varric repeated. “Let him make his own decisions.”

Gaerwyn exhaled softly. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“I know it’s hard to stomach,” Varric said. “I don’t agree with Hawke. I think she needs to find another way to heal too. That doesn’t mean that Stroud isn’t aware of what happened. He is. I think he wants to be there for her.”

The Inquisitor smiled wanly. “Fair enough.”

“Oh, letter from Curly.” Varric proffered a sealed envelope. This one had an odd pucker to it. As if Cullen had jammed some item inside before sending it off. Gaerwyn only had to break the seal to have the scent of the gardens wash over her. The onslaught of yearning for the crisp mountain air and the persistent whispering winds of Skyhold turned to an overpowering pang in her chest.

“Clever,” Varric said with a chuckle. Turning his attentions to where Hawke and Stroud sat huddled together, he shouted, “You two get some food while there’s some left.”

While the remainder of the company dined, Gaerwyn returned to her tent to read. She noticed that the first letter was from Sera- complete with drawings of bees, flowers, a splotch of jam and… a very well detailed picture of Cullen at the bottom of the page. Masturbating. Gaerwyn tried to wrack her brain for an alternative to what he could be doing. There was none. She felt the heat of her core intensify. Fuck. What she could have dismissed earlier that day as sweat gathering between her legs was replaced by her arousal.

Sera had drawn the Commander while he was… indulging himself. Gaerwyn felt her face heat up, and her breath was suddenly coming in short bursts.

_Hey, Quizzy:_

_I’ve been looking after Cullen for you, yeah? You’re welcome, by the way. I knew you were worried but didn’t want to say anything. He keeps forgetting to eat. I’ve had the kitchen staff bring him his meals. They all say he doesn’t notice when they come in though._

_Interesting thing happened the other day though. One of the scouts that works for Leliana and is also a Friend had to run a report to Cully-Wully. Said he heard Commander-Stick-Up-His-Ass groaning and moaning on in his office. Thought he was sick. That was, at least, until he heard the Commander say your name. Funny, yeah? The Commander was jerking off to the thought of you!_

_That’s sweet, isn’t it? According to my friends, he’s been “relieving” himself at least twice every day. I added a picture because friends help friends who can’t see it for themselves. I don’t know if it’s accurate though. It wasn’t like I was going to stick around and watch him diddle his dangly-bits, now was I? Guess it’ll be a surprise for you whenever you decide to stick his stick in your lady bits._

_Don’t get eaten!_

_-Sera_

Gaerwyn glanced outside. The group would be at least another hour before retiring for the evening. She withdrew Cullen’s letter, all the while pressing her legs together in an effort to kill the throbbing that was emanating from her cunt. Fuck.

_Gaerwyn,_

_I hope all is well. Sera has been strangely helpful these last few days. Perhaps my opinion of her was wrong. She started helping me train recruits in the finer points of archery. They’re learning a great deal, but I think she scares them._

_Also: Bull will be travelling out with a group of Inquisition soldiers sent to relieve the current troops stationed in the Approach. I mentioned the dragon sighting you discussed in your report over dinner last night, and he was packed within the following hour. He should be joining you shortly._

_I hope the flowers I sent weren’t entirely pulverized upon arriving. Our garden walks have not gone missed, I can assure you. Solas has taken to speaking to me whenever I pass through the rotunda, and has even accompanied me on a few evening walks. I don’t believe he trusts me entirely, but he does speak some of the Fade. How odd that I lived among mages for so long, yet did not know even half of what he does._

_I’m nearly finished with the prequel. This will certainly be an enjoyable discussion. I hope you’re prepared. Especially since I’m confused as to why the wizard companion is constantly disappearing and reappearing._

_Hopefully the flowers will quell some of your homesickness. Perhaps you’ll feel closer?_

_Yours,  
Cullen_

_P.S. There is absolutely no room in the stables. Every stall is used. Please don’t write Dennet. I know he is more than happy to accommodate the acquisitions you bring back to Skyhold. Maker, please. We already receive strange creatures through the treaties brokered. Think about those massive nugs you brought back from Val Royeaux! Or the Bog Horse? That creature is the cause of many a nightmare, and I’m fairly certain Sera used it to terrify a noblewoman for some reason or another._

She bit one finger to avoid erupting into a fit of laughter. While still tempted to return to Skyhold with a gurn in tow, the sincerity with which Cullen wrote –and the evident panic, based on the jaunty strokes of his quill, made her reconsider.

Gaerwyn kissed the letter. She did not know how he continued to be so affectionate from such a distance. The heat between her legs throbbed, making it clear that there would be no ignoring her building want.

“Damn it,” the Inquisitor groaned.


	28. Sand in an Hourglass (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaerwyn and Hawke speak about Gaerwyn's feelings for Cullen. The Inquisition prepares to set out for the Western Approach to lay siege upon Adamant Fortress. Cullen and Gaerwyn discuss going further in their relationship.
> 
> a.k.a. They talk about having the Sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your patience. Posting times have become sporadic due to my current class load. Know that I don't intend on dropping this project. I want to see this through to the end. ;D
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!

_Commander:_

_The situation in the Approach is far worse than what we initially imagined. Please make all the necessary preparations for the Inquisition forces to march on Adamant Fortress. When the Inquisitor, Champion, and I return, we will call a brief war council to discuss what should happen from there._

_We will need to leave immediately afterwards. Please ensure that the Inquisitor’s company has new supplies and horses at ready. My report will detail all necessary information- please pay particular attention to the encounter dealing with the Magister Livius Erimond. The man managed to upset the Mark, and in turn, cause the Inquisitor harm. For the sake of timeliness though, I thought it best to attach this missive._

_-Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast_

\--

In the desert twilight, the small company had opted to pitch camp for the night. After their encounter with the Wardens, it was decided that travelling in darkness was not ideal or wise. They had hunkered down in a cave, keeping lighting limited to a few lanterns. Cassandra was situated at the mouth of the cave for the first watch, Stroud sitting near at hand in the case that he was needed in the effort to ward off potential intruders.

Gaerwyn swallowed back a sob. Her hand pulsed a sickly green, tendrils of energy fizzled and hissed around the Mark. She pushed it beneath her threadbare blanket in an effort to muffle the light. That Tevinter bastard… whatever Corypheus had taught him had certainly left residual damage.

Magister Livius Erimond. That was his name. He was manipulating the Grey Wardens, corrupting an otherwise honorable order with demons and deception. She winced. An order that allowed cut-purses and murderers a second chance. Gaerwyn silenced those bitter thoughts pooling in her mind. She forced herself to remember that not all were lucky enough to choose their circumstances in life. Not to mention that Wardens didn’t simply recruit criminals to bolster their numbers. From what records Gaerwyn could find, most of the Wardens conscripted from prisons were often forced into a life where thievery or petty crime was required to survive. A few had been convicted as murderers when trying to protect themselves or their loved ones. Some were charged falsely, or had been imprisoned by nobles bearing a grudge. The Grey Warden charged with recruitment were able to identify these individuals and, as often as was possible, were able to exonerate them by invoking the Right of Conscription. Chances were that differed during a Blight but, well, the last Blight had been rather lacking in soldiers of the Grey.

She pressed her hand to her chest, inhaling sharply. The magic hissed, drawing the attentions of her travelling companions.

Hawke approached and offered Gaerwyn her hand. “I helped in Ander’s clinic,” she explained. “I might be able to do something.” She sat down beside the woman and withdrew a small medical kit.

The Inquisitor outstretched her hand for the Champion’s inspection. She had opted to abandon her usual gloves when the Mark had burned a hole into the fabric and singed the surrounding flesh of her palm.

Hawke’s touch was gentle, the pressure she applied never anything more than the ghosting of her hand over the injured area in feather-light strokes. She took Gaerwyn’s reactions into account, watching calmly from the corner of her eye.

“I can apply medicine to the burned area,” she said finally, “Heal the worst of it. I can’t see how to calm the Mark. How bad is it right now?”

“You know those braziers that surround the Inquisition camps?”

Hawke nodded.

“I’d be perfectly fine shoving my hand into one if it stopped this pain,” Gaerwyn said, her deadpan giving way to a grimace.

Claudia shook her head. She withdrew a small jar of burn cream, busying herself with what she could heal.

“So… you and Stroud,” Gaerwyn began, her voice falling into a conspiratorial whisper.

The Champion paused. “What about us?” She gently spread a coat of balm over the afflicted area.

“You’ve been spending the night in his tent…” Gaerwyn said, choosing her words with care.

“Maker. We’ve been intimate, what do you want me to say?” Claudia asked irritably. “Am I going to speak of if he is an effective bedfellow or not? Do you want to know if the rumors of Warden stamina live up to the reality? Why don’t you seek out that Blackwall fellow if you’re so curious?”

“Hawke…” Gaerwyn averted her gaze. “I didn’t mean to offend.”

The Champion sighed. “I know. I’m sorry. Stroud is a good man. He cares for me and wants to be there while I heal. Varric said you didn’t really approve of him and I, so stop beating about the bush.”

“I didn’t mean to interfere with your personal affairs,” Gaerwyn said.

Hawke shrugged, keeping her gaze affixed to the Herald’s hand. “We weren’t exactly making a secret out of it. Hard to do so given our current situation. Why… do you care?”

Gaerwyn glanced up to where Varric, Bull, and Dorian were drinking. They had claimed a small nook of the cave to play a game of cards, a small tower of silver was piled off to the side. They were too invested in their current match to pay much attention to what she and the Champion may discuss.

“I realize my worry was misplaced,” Gaerwyn murmured. “I was just seeing some of myself in you, when you moved on to Stroud.”

“How so?”

“When my mentor passed… I was fourteen, perhaps? I was friends with one of the Templars in the Circle, and well, I leaned on him for a great deal of support. Three years after her death, still hurting, still wanting the pain to go away, we began to meet in secret and we were… intimate. It wasn’t a relationship based in love, so much as a relationship based in easing a pain,” she said. “Not that there isn’t merit in comforting a lover. There is. Just… not when your hurt becomes the sole basis for the relationship. Honestly, he was a selfish lover as it was. Granted, there isn’t much time for mutually satisfying one another when every rustle and every footstep could herald your discovery.”

“So… you think I’m leaning on Stroud in a similar manner?” Hawke asked.

“I…”

“Stroud and I know where our relationship stands,” Hawke said. “As I am certain you and your Templar fellow did. I care for him, and he for me. Beyond a friendship though, we haven’t considered anything. He isn’t preying upon my hurt, Gaerwyn. He is… in a sense he is giving me the comfort I need right now.”

Hawke returned the balm to her medical kit and withdrew a roll of bandages. The flesh around the Mark tingled with the cooling sensation of medicine, no longer twitching in vexation.

“Do you view your relationship with Cullen like you did with this Templar fellow?” Hawke asked as she wrapped a swathe of white cloth about the Inquisitor’s Mark.

“No.” Gaerwyn shook her head. “What I have with Cullen is more than I have ever had with someone else. Relationships in the Circle are based upon convenience and secrecy. Ours is…” she smiled softly. “I’d like to say it’s based in mutual affection for one another and a general sense of comfort. I…” The words were on her lips, sweet like honey and warm like sunlight.

“You love him, don’t you?” Hawke said, a cheeky grin spreading over her features.

Gaerwyn tilted her head to the side, thinking. She nodded, hesitantly. There was something odd in giving her affections a form with her words. “A great deal.”

“Have you told him?”

“I… don’t know how. Or if it would even be appropriate. We’ve hardly been together for more than a six months now, and I could be wrong. I could be imagining things. What’s to say he feels the same way? Or that he views our relationship as anything more than a dalliance? What if he—“

“What if he enjoys having sex while wearing that ridiculous cloak and helmet of his? What if he had some ridiculous roleplay involving chess? What if? What if?” Hawke ruffled up Gaerwyn’s hair in a manner only an elder sister could ever imitate. “We’re at war. Life is short and precious. Love is even more so. You don’t look at him as if you’re merely infatuated. You look at him as if his heart is open and his soul is bare. As if every moment spent with him, even those where you are simply passing one another in the hall or having some ridiculous argument, are moments that you cherish, because in the end, you love him.”

Gaerwyn smirked. “How, pray tell, does he look at me?”

Hawke’s grin widened. “As if you wove the constellations into the night sky. As if you can conquer any adversity. As if every moment spent with you is a moment never wasted, and a one too short for his liking. In the end, he loves you too.”

“You think ever so highly of us,” Gaerwyn said with a weak laugh.

“Only because I believe you deserve happiness, Lady Trevelyan, my dear friend. After everything you two have been through, after everything you have fought for, and every foe you have overcome, you deserve nothing less.” Hawke enfolded her arms around the Herald. “You don’t have to say those three words until you’re ready,” she whispered. “Just… don’t doubt how you feel.”

“Hawke… the last person I said those words to I ended up killing,” Gaerwyn whispered. “My mentor… she was possessed by a demon and, honestly, I don’t know who responded. I don’t know who said ‘I love you’ back to me. I don’t know why, but I’m scared to tell him.” She leaned forward, passing a hand over her face to push her thick locks of hair back.

Claudia proceeded to rub gentle circles over Gaerwyn’s back. Like the Inquisitor had held her but a few weeks earlier, the Champion sheathed the woman in her embrace.

“It’s alright,” Hawke crooned next to her ear.

“Is love sometimes a frightening concept?” Gaerwyn asked, her voice muffled by the plush fur wrapped about Hawke’s shoulders.

Her friend paused in her gentle ministrations for but a moment. “Yes,” she said softly. “I believe it is. To hold someone so dearly that you would throw your life into harm’s way for that person. Be that a mother, brother, sister, friend, or a lover. Love makes you reckless. Yet… I would not trade the chance to love someone and be loved in return for anything.”

Gaerwyn nodded slightly, her eyes drooping with fatigue. “What if that person doesn’t love you back? What if that one individual were to take you for granted?” She didn’t know why she was turning her friend’s gentle, caring words into a debate. Yet in her sleepy stupor, Gaerwyn pursued the conversation.

“It doesn’t speak poorly of me, now does it?” Hawke smirked. “You aren’t less of a person if someone chooses to belittle your affections. You aren’t less of a person if that one soul thinks you are small or insignificant. You deserve love. Knowing you deserve love means ejecting that person. Knowing you deserve love means you are worthy enough to love yourself. And in knowing so, you know you deserve more than the fool who thought to look at you as less.”

“You’re such a sister,” Gaerwyn said with a yawn.

Hawke tilted her head to the side and laughed. “This is the first time I’ve ever spoken about this with anyone,” she admitted. “Take my words with a grain of salt.”

She disentangled her arms from around Gaerwyn. “Now,” Claudia continued. “The Lady Seeker informed me that tomorrow is going to be quite the day of travel. Best get some rest before then, yes?”

Gaerwyn nodded. The two bid each other a pleasant evening’s rest. The Herald glanced down at her bandaged hand, the sickly green light of the Mark glowed faintly under the layers of gauze. From what she could gather, Hawke had only covered the injury so that the balm she had applied wouldn’t smear onto Gaerwyn’s clothes or be rubbed off while she slept. It was a thoughtful gesture and one that would be appreciated.

\--

_She remembered how Elliann would press four kisses to her face each night, the perfumed scent of lilacs and elfroot wafted off of the woman in a warm wave. One to her forehead. “Sleep well, Honeybee,” she murmured, her breath tickling Gaerwyn’s brow._

_One to her left eye. “Dream of pleasant things.”_

_One to her right eye. “Let tomorrow’s ordeals not plague you now.”_

_One to the tip of her nose. “Remember a world beyond these walls.”_

_Elliann would stay long enough to strum a lullaby on her lute. The worn, scarred face of the instrument would glow by the candlelight while its player sang a song that painted an image of a river flowing under moonlight, moving like threads of quicksilver over a riverbed of dark stone._

_Gaerwyn would dream of the lake on her family’s estate, the surface polished like a looking glass. In the distance, she could hear her siblings romping in the gardens with the governess injecting words of gentle rebuke if they got too rowdy. She would seek out the small spring blossoms and the dusky blooms of heather that grew on the surrounding moorland. From those plants she crafted circlets, bangles, and necklaces that were befitting of royalty._

_Beyond the moorland stretched the sea. Churning and frothing and a sickly grey when a storm brewed on its waves. Days that were clear and blue often heralded the sight of a calm, blue-green horizon. Yet, even in her dreams, Gaerwyn always fondly recalled that uncertain serenity that shattered with the first clap of thunder._

_She told her mentor of these memories. Her words danced on the tip of Elliann’s paintbrush, coloring a canvas with images of a world beyond stone walls. Those paintings were her portal. The reality she could not have but coveted all the same._

_Every night her mentor would whisper those words to her. “Dream of pleasant things. Let tomorrow’s ordeals not plague you now. Remember a world beyond these walls.”_

_Then one night came where Elliann’s lute remained in its case, propped inside her armoire. She did not press those four motherly kisses to her face, nor did she whisper those tender kindnesses to the lass of fourteen years._

_She pulled the covers up to Gaerwyn’s chin, and in silent resignation, Elliann sat down at the child’s bedside. Tenderly, her mentor brushed the unruly locks of auburn out of her apprentice’s eyes, her movements slow and hesitant._

_“Gaerwyn, I want you to know that you have been the daughter I always longed for,” she murmured. “I am so proud of you.”_

_Something was wrong. Wait… was her Harrowing tonight? Was this Elliann’s way of saying she would soon be a full-fledged mage? And yet… the pride which shimmered in her mentor’s deep blue eyes was hampered by an emotion that was all but drowning out everything else. Gaerwyn had never seen this look of remorse. It frightened her. Did Elliann not believe that her apprentice would succeed?_

_“I love you, Gaerwyn,” she continued, her voice breaking. “Know that whatever happens tonight, you are not to blame. You… you deserve to live amongst your moorlands and travel to Val Royeaux. I… I pray that you will be happy.”_

_As Elliann rose to take her leave, Gaerwyn grappled onto her sleeve. With the resolution of a seasoned warrior and the patience of a Chantry sister, her mentor eased her hand away from the child and turned to face the door._

_She paused. Fidgeting with her hands, Elliann finally removed the ring with the Circle’s crest blazed into the band. She placed it on Gaerwyn’s nightstand and disappeared into the dimly lit hall, pulling the door closed behind her._

_Gaerwyn lay awake for what seemed an eternity, her mind combing through the past few days with Elliann in hopes of finding some evidence as to why her dear mentor was acting so off. They had spent near every waking moment together. In fact, Elliann had opted to simply sleep in Gaerwyn’s quarters for the past three nights, one arm curled around the child’s center while the other listlessly stroked her head. She had been the epitome of serenity._

_What of her lover? Did the two have a spat? Gaerwyn knew of some of their arguments, and had even acted as the go-between on a few occasions when they could otherwise not be seen together. Not that she minded. The disputes were usually trivial and easily resolved. How she had wished they could be open in their affections for each other. Wondering, offhandedly, if the Knight-Commander would ever whisk Elliann away to live beyond the stone walls her mentor despised with such passion. She would send a prayer to the Maker then, begging him to ensure that she was not forgotten. That the Knight-Commander would claim her as his daughter, and he and Elliann would be the parents who taught her everything; who believed her capable of anything._

_The door to her quarters was pushed open by a pale, spindly hand. Shambling footsteps scraped along the floor; the mage’s slippers would no doubt be scuffed and torn when came morning. A pity. They weren’t issued new robes and shoes until Satinalia... though that date was sometimes prolonged to when the Chantry could afford the materials to make their clothes._

_Elliann reentered the room, her head lolling forward and her shoulders hunched. Had it even been two hours since she left? Could she truly be so exhausted that she would toss aside her regal bearing? Elliann? Who declared that such a show of submission was as reprehensible as a creature exposing its belly?_

_“Elliann?” Gaerwyn whispered._

_Her mentor’s head swiveled, her neck producing a sickening snap with the sudden, abrupt motion._

_“ **Honeybee…** ” she rasped out._

_“Are you ill?” The apprentice sat up._

_With one shaky hand, Elliann wrenched back the thick storm cloud of locks obscuring her features. The force of the act ripped a chunk of hair and flesh from her head. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong._

_Elliann stared down at her with a predatory smile. Eyes that were deep like the shadows of the ocean were now a sickly, bilious yellow._

_“ **Sweet, sweet, honeybee,** ” She wheezed. From her belt, she removed a wicked dagger. Only then did Gaerwyn realize that her mentor's hand was stained red. “ **Sweet baby girl. Come here.** ”_

_Whatever this demon was, was clearly not in full control of Elliann’s body yet. It was still growing accustomed to the small nuances of a human vessel, and its untrained step made that obvious._

_All the more obvious was this lack of control made when the creature tried to smile. Elliann’s lips pulled back into what was initially a jovial grin… and then continued to spread until her smile had split a seam into her cheeks that ran from the lobe of one ear to the other, betraying the intricate workings of the muscles beneath._

_“ **Come here,** ” the creature ordered, its words hardening into iron._

_Gaerwyn stepped out of bed and slowly approached the demon. A laugh like glass shattering was emitted from Elliann’s tattered mouth._

_That same red hand reached out to grasp Gaerwyn, but only snatched air. The small apprentice darted to the side and then out into the halls. She shouted for help. Someone, anyone would do. She stumbled in the near darkness, her foot smashing into something metallic and jarring a scream in her throat._

_She looked down. She was standing at the side of a dead Templar. The blood pooling around the corpse would no doubt stain into her slippers and leave a path for the demon to follow. Yet she didn’t have time to worry on that. She’d just run to the first enchanter’s quarters. Lydia would know what to do! She always did! She loved the apprentices, so there was no chance she would dare to turn Gaerwyn away._

_Down the hall she bolted. Could she risk screaming again? The few Templars she encountered had been reduced to mangled masses of blood and bone and Chantry sigils. There were only apprentices in this wing. Most of them still new to the Circle and its unforgiving way of life. To get them involved would be inviting a massacre._

_She kept her silence._

_Gaerwyn kept running. While prohibited to enter the upper-levels after curfew, she did not expect for the doors to be locked. She tried three points that accessed the second floor to no avail._

_In the distance she heard humming. Discordant, off-key, yet pleased, so very pleased, humming._

_And then a thought nested itself in Gaerwyn’s mind and refused to be moved. Who had spent those past few days with Gaerwyn? Had it been her mentor? If… if this was a desire demon who currently inhabited Elliann’s body, then that possession would be an acceptable explanation for how the woman had seemed to revel even the smallest of things. The smallest of things that only a mortal could experience. The savory sweet flavor of an apple. The embrace of a lover. The company of friends and peers. The restoration that only a full night's sleep could provide._

_But… who had told her then? Who had said those words?_

_I love you._

_The torchlight illuminated the silhouette of the approaching demon. She didn’t have time to ponder these thoughts. Gaerwyn ran for the nearest storage room, seeking out shelter._

_It would not be for many years that Gaerwyn could fondly recall those pleasant smiles of Elliann without seeing the demon's tattered grin. She would not look upon the Templars stationed in the Apprentice quarters like she had before that night. Nor would she willingly conjure up images of the moorlands without recalling Elliann's loving renditions painted to capture Gaerwyn's wild memories without the brush being clutched in a hand stained red._

_Those three tender words of affection spoken often between her and her mentor would not be uttered after that night. She locked those words away and dared not dwell upon them._

\--

Mobilizing an army was no simple task. Ensuring that soldiers were properly outfitted for a trek into the desert required a rigorous inspection and then a sea of requisition requests followed shortly afterwards. The armory was alive with the sound of metal taking shape, the blacksmiths working into the wee hours of the morning to ensure that every soldier was properly outfitted. Those same smiths were aided by workshops in Denerim, who had promised three hundred blades in the next week.

The reports detailed that over a three thousand arrows had been fletched in the past week, and another thousand were to be crafted in the next few days. Over six hundred blades were shaped in Skyhold’s personal smithy, Harritt examining each one for imperfections and Dagna applying a magical flare to the then authorized weapon.

Cullen was, once again, spending his mornings calibrating trebuchets while his officers handled training the new recruits. Recruits that wouldn’t see battle this time round if he had any say in the matter. Various siege engines were provided by several of Josephine’s aristocratic contacts, of those weapons being a massive battering ram shaped like a fist bearing a spiked tekko. All of which Cullen and Harrit ensured were up to snuff when received, and would inspect upon arriving at the forward camp in the Approach.

“I’m so fuckin’ bored,” Sera groused. She lay on the floor in front of Cullen’s desk, her lanky legs propped up on its edge. “Is this seriously all you do? Day in day out?”

Cullen shrugged. He applied his signature to the twentieth requisition request that day, and placed the finished paperwork into a neat pile. The Red Jenny released another loud groan of boredom, her entire frame shuddering with the force of its expulsion.

“You don’t have to mope about my office if you don’t want to,” Cullen said. He retrieved another report from the never-depleting pile and scanned the contents for any new developments. He questioned why the Inquisition required a foothold in the Fallow Mire, only to summon forth Josephine’s lecture on the value of multiple trade routes. Nothing save for the usual ghouls that prowled the roads, so Cullen signed and discarded the report into the completed pile.

“Did ya get a letter from Quizzy?” Sera asked.

“No. Not today at least.”

Sera lifted up a letter she had most likely pilfered from Leliana. Cullen had no doubt that the Spymaster was aware, but also knew that the Red Jenny would eventually deliver it to the Commander.

“Why did you bother asking if you had it in the first place?” Cullen inquired. His only response was a grunt.

With a sigh, he sat down and broke the seal on the letter.

_Cullen, my dear heart:_

_The distance is unbearable. I should warn you now that I will return from the Western Approach red and burnt by the constant sun. By any luck, the journey to ~~you~~ Skyhold will allow me time to heal._

_I expect to be home within the week. To be writing this from the comfort of an inn with running water is surreal. No doubt you’ve received Cassandra’s report which detailed the going-ons of the Grey Wardens we came in contact with. The situation… is not good. If anything I’d say that it’s worse than what we initially suspected._

_You weren’t wrong when you said that Bull would be arriving shortly after your previous letter! He was here within the week, and the dragon was dealt with shortly thereafter. Maker, the creature was beautiful. If not for the danger she would have posed to the nearby fort claimed by the Inquisition, I would have liked to have let her live. All the same, it gave Bull an excuse to pursue a night of drunken revelry. My head still hurts._

_The flowers were lovely. Thank you. I would send you a bouquet of deep mushroom and elfroot, but I’ve been informed that while the sentiment is kind, the gift is not romantic in the least. I’ll think of something!_

_I hope all is well. If there is anything I can do, you need only ask._

_I’ll be with you soon, dear heart._

_Yours,  
Gaerwyn_

\--

The Inquisitor and her company arrived at the gates of Skyhold in the waking hours of the morning. The portcullis was lowered for them to proceed into the courtyard where all manner of work was taking place. Gaerwyn counted ten messengers dart past, all making for one destination or another. The healers were taking inventory of what medicinal herbs they had and what potions would need to be mixed. Recruits were training in the upper courtyard, whereas the lower was congested with carts of supplies and scouts.

“Inquisitor!” Blackwall greeted her as she approached the stables. “How was the Approach? The Wardens?”

Gaerwyn made a genuine attempt to not appear taken off guard. She knew Blackwall would be concerned about his brethren. Anyone in his situation would be.

“Ah.” She slid off her saddle and turned to retrieve the artifacts found while toiling away under the desert sun. “Not well,” she said, not making eye contact. “I won’t lie to you, Blackwall. The current state of affairs with Wardens is… problematic. Warden Commander Clarel is working with a Tevinter Magister who appears rather bent on ruining the Order.”

“Inquisitor.” Blackwall’s voice was sharp, like a father who demanded the full attention of a child. She looked at him, Warden sword in one hand and a vial of Archdemon blood in the other. “What’s happening?”

Gaerwyn sighed. She handed the artifacts off the Warden with a sigh. “I honestly don’t know. Even now. It appears that the Wardens are using blood sacrifices to summon demons and that some of them are being controlled with blood magic.” She felt the bile rise in her throat.

Blackwall caught the sudden breach in her well-maintained facade. Shifting the two artifacts to the covered well nearby, he then placed a large hand on her shoulder.

“Take me with you, Inquisitor,” he said, voice firm with his conviction.

“I can’t do that, Blackwall,” she replied softly. His grip tightened but a fraction. “The Wardens are hearing a false Calling, and if not that, they’re being controlled. There are too many variables at play here. Too many risks. You’re my friend, Blackwall. I don’t want to lose you.”

His fierce expression gentled with the sincerity of her voice. “Of course, Inquisitor. If you should need anything, you need only come to me.”

She nodded. “Thank you. I’m sorry.”

The Warden was obviously disappointed. She couldn’t blame him. She was refusing him the right to help his comrades. He turned to right a chunk of firewood on the chopping block, his attentions returning to his usual chores.

“Blackwall,” she began. “Would you be willing to work with the soldiers we send in to assist the wounded? You would be close enough to the Inquisition if you needed assistance, and still be able to help the Wardens.”

The tension in the man’s shoulders melted away. “I would like that very much. Thank you, Inquisitor.”

With their conversation ended, Gaerwyn walked her horse into the stables. The creature was happy for the rest, she knew. The Inquisitor only wished that such a kindness could be extended to her then.

After seeing to her mount, Gaerwyn made for the Great Hall. She was a sight for the querying eyes of the aristocracy. Her hair was disheveled; clothing covered in dust, mud, and darkspawn blood; not to mention her nose and cheeks were tinged with the pink remnants of a sunburn.

“Inquisitor,” a gentle voice whispered. Gaerwyn turned to see the Commander behind her. He looked tired. No doubt she mirrored his exhaustion; seeing as she believed if she wasn't tracking, or staggering, in mud every time she entered the Great Hall, she thought she wasn't working hard enough. Though many would probably argue that logic.

“Commander,” she responded, paying particular heed to a pair of noble whispering behind masks and lace gloves. “Are you well?”

“As well as one may expect,” he replied, falling into step with her. “Hawke is speaking with Josephine currently. From the sound of it, they may need a few minutes to discuss matters before the council. Is she well?”

“Claudia? She’s fine, I believe,” Gaerwyn replied. Her thoughts flicked back to the night where Hawke had received the letter from Anders. Her chest seized with the image of this powerful woman finally succumbing to despair. “I can’t go into much detail. I would rather not betray her trust. I promise you that it will in no way hinder the Inquisition’s efforts or…” Cullen watched her. “Us.”

The Commander nodded. “Understood.” He gestured to the door that led into Josephine’s office. “I was wondering if we could discuss a few reports in the library downstairs.”

“Of course.” They pushed the door open and, instead of walking directly into the Lady Ambassador’s office, they made a sharp left and made the steep descent into the hall below. They stepped into the library, a room draped in thick cobwebs, only peering outside the doorway to check for any servants. None.

He turned to her, ghosting one hand over her cheek. “You’re quite a sight.” He laughed.

She smirked. “We rode through the night,” she said softly. “The last three, in fact. I haven’t had a decent night’s rest since… I’m too tired to remember.” Gaerwyn leaned into Cullen, pressing her ear flush to his breastplate. She could barely make out the gentle beating of his heart. “I missed you,” she murmured.

“And I you,” he replied, his voice lifting only slightly above a whisper. He guided her to the desk chair, where she promptly sat down without ceremony.

“Are you well? Cassandra mentioned that the Mark was acting strangely in her report. Is it still hurting?” he asked. “Do you need anything? I can get you something from the kitchen if you’d like. Perhaps one of the apothecaries has medicine to ease the pain?”

Gaerwyn smiled. Now that she had the chance to sit down, the fatigue seeping into her bones and joints made it clear that rising to her feet would be an ordeal. “I would argue the semantics of that book if…” She couldn’t even manage a coherent thought. “The Mark hasn’t caused any more trouble since we encountered Erimond. Honestly, it has been a dull and persistent pain since I first fell out of the Fade. Some days are worse than other. It’s… it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

Cullen bent down and pressed a kiss to her brow, letting his lips linger. She didn’t talk often about the pain… and he was helpless to do anything. He despised that. Even when he had come so far, had accomplished more than one might expect of a common Templar, seeing her deal with this anguish alone was enough to make him feel like a recruit once more. He had pestered Solas, and received a terse, pointed response. Essentially, the elf had informed him that everything that could be done for Gaerwyn had been attempted at least once. The Inquisitor would simply have to make do.

While Solas’s words sounded cruel, Cullen realized that he also came from a place of frustration. On multiple occasions had he seen Gaerwyn and Solas strolling through the gardens discussing magical theory and the Fade. She listened intently while he spoke of his travels into the world of dreams and genuinely valued his opinion. It was a pleasant friendship, and Cullen had no doubt that Solas struggled with his own inability to ease the Inquisitor's pain. The mage could not help his friend, even though she was suffering, even though he had an extensive knowledge of the Fade.

“Tell me if there is anything that I can do. Anything at all,” he said after a moment’s pause.

“Still think I’m beautiful?” she asked in a weak attempt at jesting.

“Always,” he whispered.

Gaerwyn wrapped her arms around his neck, effectively halting him from standing completely upright. “You’re so far away,” she said.

The Commander knelt before her, his head level with her chest. He encircled his arms about her waist, straining to meet Gaerwyn as she bent down to press her lips to his. She was soft, as if the fatigue had eroded away her tough edges, her kisses gently feathering over his mouth- not coupled with the welcomed, fervent passion that would leave him breathless, or her swallowed moans that would hitch her breath.

“Cullen, we have time. We should talk about… amorous activities,” she began slowly, her cheeks burning a dusky red that was a stark contrast to the faded pink it replaced. “Engaging in them, I mean.”

The Commander nodded.

“I’m not a virgin,” Gaerwyn said quietly. “I... there have been encounters in my past. I don’t want you walking into this disappointed—“

“Why would I be disappointed?” he asked in confusion.

“I’m not… you won’t be my first,” she replied. “You were a Templar. You know that mages engage in dalliances on occasion.”

Cullen smirked. She fought the impulse to laugh. “On occasion is a lie. I’m certain you couldn’t walk the length of a hall without catching a pair.”

“Ferelden had one of the more liberal circles,” he mused. He sat down on the stone floor, ignoring the sudden chill spreading over his backside. “Why would I be upset that I’m not your first?” he asked.

“Ah… well, I suppose I just…” When his gaze hardened with hurt, Gaerwyn quickly moved to amend her statement. “When I began a relationship with a mage after my first time with another, he was angry. We had managed to sneak off and find a private corner to… engage in…”

“Amorous activities?” His lips twitched into a teasing smile. The mage nodded.

“He got mad afterwards. Said I should have bled… which isn’t true for one, but when I admitted he wasn’t my first he was livid. He called me some rather crude things and then went on to persuade his colleagues into also referring to me by those names,” she said. “I suppose I just assumed I should be up front with anyone else who I may be with after that happened. That it may be a source of disappointment...”

Cullen took her hands in his. “He was wrong. Gaerwyn, I care for you. Not your former paramours. Please understand, I will never resent you or feel any disappointment that I was not your first. I will never look down upon you or think less of you.” He leaned up, pressing a soft kiss to her jaw. "My dear Inquisitor, if anything, I feel truly fortunate that you chose me to be the receiver of your affections."

She smiled, looking away to mask her shyness. “I don’t know how exceptional I’ll be. I never had the chance to perfect the art seeing as time was of the essence. Especially since…”

“What is it?”

“I’ve never… actually reached my peak during…”

“Amorous activities?”

She nodded mutely. “Yes. Bit hard given my past circumstances.”

Cullen eased her out of the chair so she now straddled his lap. “My first was with a colleague,” he said. “It was fast and embarrassing. I didn’t satisfy her by any means.”

“Oh? So we’ve both had our share of disappointments?” she asked.

“My dear Inquisitor, I was the disappointment,” he said with a laugh.

“You? I don’t believe that.” She rolled her hips against him. He was already half hard. “I just… want you to know that when we…”

“Engage in amorous activities?”

Gaerwyn swatted his arm lightly. “Yes, you infuriating man. When we engage in amorous activities.”

“Should we discuss what not to do?”

“I… can’t have my hands bound behind my back. Bad memories,” she said, demonstrating by placing her wrists against the small of her back. Cullen nodded.

“What about a word? Bull mentioned how there are words used to stop…”

“You and Bull have had some rather interesting talks, haven’t you?” she asked in amusement.

Cullen’s cheeks burned. “A few,” he admitted. “All the same, what word should we use?”

She thought for a moment. “Enchantment?”

Cullen shook his head profusely. “No. Not that word.”

“Why not?”

“A story for another time,” he said quickly. “How about eagles?”

“The story makes sense, Cullen!”

“I will argue that point to the death, my dear Inquisitor,” he said, nipping her lower lip.

“And I, dear heart, will fight just as fiercely,” she growled. “What about… finis? It’s Tevene, It means finish.”

“What about stop in Tevene?”

“Prohibere. Bit of a mouthful.” She shrugged. “Unless you’re attached to eagles. Maker, who would say that in the bedroom?”

“Finis will be fine,” Cullen said. “Though I’m not opposed to eagles by any—“

“Hush,” Gaerwyn said with a laugh. “What of you? Are there things I should avoid doing?”

Her Commander thought for a moment. “I’m not entirely sure. For the time being, at least, I can’t think of anything.”

“Let me know if that changes.”

She kissed him gently, feeling the heat nestling between her legs burn a little brighter. She rolled her hips sensually, spurred on by how he gasped out her name.

“Gaerwyn, the war council,” he said. “They’ll be looking for us.”

“Sorry,” she said, embarrassment creeping into her voice.

“No, no, don’t be,” he said gently. “I did want to ask you about something though…”

“What is that?”

“Bull mentioned that you talk in your sleep… to me.” Cullen’s cheeks were scorched with a blush.

The Inquisitor raised an eyebrow.

“H-he said that you were dreaming of us…”

“Engaging in amorous activities?” Gaerwyn finished.

Cullen nodded mutely.

The Inquisitor cast her gaze to the side, inhaling sharply.

“I-I’m sorry,” he began. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I wasn’t asleep,” she said, her words tumbling out in an exhalation of breath.

The silence that fell over them was tangible. Gaerwyn’s blush was hidden as she clamped her hands over her face and hunched her shoulders up to her ears. She was attempting, unsuccessfully, to make herself small.

“You were…” Cullen started, his surprise giving way to flattery and then to abashment. She pleasured herself to the thought… of him?

“I thought that I was being quiet,” she said, the sentence trailing off into a tail of mortification. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize!” he insisted. “I’m not angry. It’s not as if I haven’t… done similar things.”

She curled her fingers into her palms, leaving her eyes unveiled. “You have?”

Cullen felt his blush intensify. Was he running a fever? Maker, he might as well be, he grumbled internally.

“I… yes.” He couldn’t recall the last time he had felt so mortified. It was as if Gaerwyn had walked in on him during the very act of pleasuring himself to the thought of her.

Quiet followed. How does one carry on a conversation from there? The Inquisitor giggled, her laughter not derisive, but bubbling with joy.

“To think that we’d be sitting here blushing like two teenagers isn’t something I’d ever imagine,” she said, tears beading at the corners of her eyes. “I’m flattered and, Maker, I’m so embarrassed.”

Cullen chuckled. “I wasn’t lying when I said I missed you.”

“I didn’t think you were.” She pressed his lips against his jawline. “Will my dear Commander be willing to impart some of his fantasies?” Her warm breath against his neck sent his pulse into a wild bolt.

He felt his heart launch into his throat and scream out an irregular beat. His abdomen tightened, and his cock twitched, straining against the constraints of his trousers.

“We’re in my office. I’m sitting with you on my lap… you're completely naked. We're...” he said, swallowing when he found his mouth drying at the thought.

“So my sitting like this…” She glanced down at her lower half. She was still straddling him, astride his lap with her arms resting lazily on his shoulders.

“It is a little distracting,” he admitted. “I do like when we stay like this.”

“I’m glad,” she purred. “It’s one of my favorite ways to be held by you.” She took his lower lip in her teeth, gently tugging on it. Cullen tangled his fingers in her hair, exhaling through his nose as he kissed her. He had lost track of the weeks she was gone. Her initial fatigue was replaced with an easily discernible longing and she proceeded to run her tongue over the seam of his lips. She gently pried his lips open, her breath warm and urgent. He drifted his hands down to her bottom, squeezing her rump gently. He swallowed her squeals and the soft sounds of longing that dripped from her lips.

Her hands tangled in his hair, effectively mussing the well-kempt curls. Something he had come to expect of their tender embraces, and a result he welcomed.

“What of you?” he asked, after finally, and reluctantly, breaking their kiss. “What do you imagine?”

With her lips swollen and burning with his lingering touch, Gaerwyn answered. “Well… it’s a lazy morning. You whisper in my ear that you want to give me a proper kiss and you slowly trail your mouth down my body to my…” She was blushing a maddening red. “To the juncture between my legs. You kiss me there and…” Gaerwyn struggled to continue forward. She couldn’t recall the last time sex had meant pleasure for her. Certainly, former partners would work her to arousal... but nothing more. Honestly, even speaking of such a thing made her feel selfish.

Cullen brushed his lips over her cheek. “Would my Lady Inquisitor ask this of me?”

“I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable—“

“Would my Lady Inquisitor, the woman who entertains all of my affections, ask this of me?” he repeated, nuzzling his nose into her neck, one hand creeping beneath her shirt and toying with the edge of her breast band.

“Cullen,” she gasped as he circled a thumb around her nipple. “War council?”

“Gaerwyn.” He whispered her name against her ear, sending pleasant shivers trilling down her spine.

“Cullen, if you’re willing to… humor my imaginings, yes, I would ask you. Only if you want to that is—“ 

“I want to,” he said, his tone speaking volumes for what he didn’t put into words.

She released the breath she didn’t realize she had been holding. “War council,” she said in way of reminder.

The Commander nodded. “Shall we join them then?”

“They’ll send someone to look for us if we don’t,” Gaerwyn murmured. She rose off of his lap on wobbling legs, bolts of pain driving into her joints as she moved. He steadied his hands on her hips to help her stand... having a thought that, if put into action, may prolong their stay in the library for a little longer.

“Gaerwyn,” he began. “Do you want to try something?”

“What’s on your mind?” she asked. He kissed her inner thigh, his lips warm against her trousers. “Cullen, I haven’t bathed. I’m covered in grime and sweat. I’m surprised you haven’t remarked on how I smell as it is!”

“You smell fine!” he insisted. Certainly, the slight traces of body odor were present, but hardly overwhelming.

“Commander! Inquisitor!” A servant peered into the library to see Gaerwyn standing off to the side while Cullen remained sitting, his legs stretched out in front of him and a noticeable bulge jutting upwards in his pants. “Sister Leliana and Lady Josephine are asking for you.”

“Thank you,” Gaerwyn said, adopting a tone of calm formality. She smiled at the lad. “We will be up shortly.”

The servant bowed and disappeared once more. Gaerwyn offered Cullen her hand, which he took.

“We’ll have the journey back to the Approach,” she said. “I’m certain we’ll find time then.”

Cullen never thought he’d be keen when it came to engaging romantically while travelling. Yet when she looked at him with those burning green eyes and that mischievous smile, he found his preconceptions all but banished.

They borrowed a moment to pat down stray hairs and straighten the others clothing, smoothing down wrinkles in slow, meditated motions. At that point, the two were nearly presentable. There was no time, or actual point, to fabricate an excuse over why Cullen’s hair was slightly disheveled or why Gaerwyn’s neck was a flushed scarlet red.

He offered her his arm, which she happily accepted. The two made for the hall in silence, taking solace in the shared calm. Within a matter of hours, that serenity would be shattered. The troops would be mobilized and the march for the Approach would be the set goal they struck out towards.

They paused once more at the foot of the staircase to breathe. Quiet, understated breaths to ease their racing minds.

“You can do this,” Gaerwyn said, for Cullen and herself. She cast her eyes to him. “You know that, right?”

Cullen smiled. “I like to think so. And you, my dear Inquisitor, have proven your ability time and again.”

She worried at her lower lip. The slightest tremor coursed down her left arm. She shouldn’t be bothered by this. She had been thrown into the future, returned, closed a hole spitting out demons, confronted an immortal magister, and survived an avalanche. Not to mention she had somehow managed to reverse the Rite of Tranquility. That wasn't without merit. The odds for pulling through a siege on a mere fortress seemed to be in her favor. If not because she of natural talent, then certainly because she was tenacious enough. Or very lucky.

“You won’t be alone,” he promised her. “Not like when you confronted Corypheus.”

“Thank you,” she responded. “I was fine up until now. I…”

Cullen brushed a hand over her cheek. His gaze didn’t carry judgment with it. If anything, what Gaerwyn saw was a deeply set conviction. She felt a sudden pang of guilt in her gut. He believed in her. Yet what if she failed? What if they were simply not acknowledging the truth of the situation?

“I would rather not think about what could happen right now,” she finally managed. “Thank you, Cullen.” She clasped his hands in hers.

“You know, you never did specify what sort of disciplinary action you had in mind for me,” he said, a playful glint catching across his eye.

She hummed softly, tilting her head to the side. “I have something in mind,” she said. “I’m willing to postpone punishing you for the time being…”

“Oh?”

“I’d rather you be at your best,” she murmured. “This march will be exhausting for the two of us.”

“You underestimate me, Inquisitor.”

Gaerwyn laughed then, her voice carrying through the halls. Maker, how he had missed that sound.

“Forgive me, my dear Commander. ‘Twas never my intent.” She made the amendment with ease. “Now, we have kept our esteemed colleagues waiting for long enough.”

“Let them wait a few minutes more,” he said, ghosting his hands over her hips. “I missed you,” he sighed against her mouth. “Please. Let me hold you for but a moment.”

Gaerwyn wrapped her arms loosely about his neck, standing upon the balls of her feet to kiss him. He held her close, lips gentle and tender in their ministrations. He took the stolen stint of time to rememorize the gentle contours of her body, the way she would swallow a moan, the way he could coax a soft squeal out of her by kissing her neck. His imagination may never be able to touch upon the actual reality, the actual pleasure, of holding her so close.

She leaned against the wall, tangling her fingers into his surcoat and pulling him against her. He laughed against her lips, feeling her mouth curve with a smile. “Maker, you are…” he whispered in quiet awe. He didn’t bother to complete the sentence. He pulled her in for one more gentle kiss. As much as both may have wanted to spend the day in the other’s company, duty demanded otherwise.

They ascended the stairs and made for the war council. Now, they were Commander and Inquisitor. No longer mere titles, but representatives of the Inquisition. As with every entrance into a professional setting, Gaerwyn and Cullen left their relationship at the door.

“Inquisitor. Commander,” Leliana said from her corner of the war table. “Shall we begin?”

“Of course,” Gaerwyn replied, taking her place beside Hawke.

Discussing the march and the siege could only be so fruitful. Strategy was wont to change, and they had to remain flexible. All the same, they cemented a finely crafted plan that would allow for various alterations if need be.

Both Leliana and Josephine would be traveling with the troops. The Spymaster claimed that she could operate with ease from behind the lines, while the Ambassador was perfectly content to continue her correspondences with various merchants, nobles, and agents from her tent. While not strategically sound per se, the two would brook no argument. They were coming. Whether their colleagues agreed or not.

Not but an hour after the council had adjourned, Gaerwyn mounted her horse. This one was not the same as her usual traveling companion, the one who had become so accustomed to her and she to him. Yet she didn’t have the heart to deprive the creature of a well-deserved rest. One of Dennet's assistants would look out for the horse, make sure he was healthy and fully recovered from his travels.

The march began with the Inquisitor and the Commander taking point at the head of the procession, and all members of the Inner Circle falling in closely after. Soldiers of all status were meshed together so that the various lieutenants could ensure there was no break in rank and order was maintained. A guard was assembled about the trebuchets, battering rams, and the various engines of war. All civilians who were called to serve as smiths, cooks, and healers had the largest entourage of soldiers and were situated in the securest place of the formation. The Inquisition couldn’t risk losing one of them.

Cullen glanced in Gaerwyn’s direction. She shifted uncomfortably in her new armor, flexing her shoulders to better accustom herself to the weight. The chain mail she had donned was woven from silverite, which the Harritt had assured him was light and exceptional protection against assailing blades. Dagna had promptly piped in, stating she had enchanted the mail with formidable defense magic. In her words, "The Inqusitor won't have a scratch on her. At least... not the part covered by the mail. She'll be fine!" The crest of the Inquisition was emblazoned on her Everite breastplate, the tendrils of Andraste's holy flame curled about the Eye of the Maker in an intricate design. He had told Harritt to ensure that the armor was light-weight, given that the Inquisitor would need as few hindrances to her mobility as possible, but that didn't guarantee personal comfort, all the same.

“I usually only wear padding,” she said when she felt his eyes on her. “Is plate always so uncomfortable?”

“You’ll hardly feel it once we reach Adamant,” Cullen promised.

The mage sighed. “I certainly hope so. It's like wearing a second, really hard skin.”

The Commander looked onward to the mountain pass. With one sharp order, the soldiers stood at ready and the march was set into motion.

The Approach awaited them. As did a hoard of demons. Neither of which were appealing prospects.

For now though, the most pressing matter to attend to was leading the Inquisition safely through the mountains, and then through the Dales.


End file.
